I remember my gay student’s face showing me how he self-harms.
I remember my father’s face, the ugly way he bites his lower lip, eyes widened with anger, fist raised in belligerent disdain.
I remember my ex-husband’s face, kissing my feet, asking me to forgive him again after he hit me a third time.
I remember the married man’s face, trying to convince me that his wife has become no more than a sister to him.
I imagine Freud’s face, fucking his mother in his dreams, then writing on suppressed desires.
My trans friend’s face, a glimpse of a man’s face staring back at her in the mirror, had she not transitioned.
My lover’s face, the first time I actually enjoyed sex, how we searched for joy in each other’s eyes.
The last concert I attended, the violinist’s face soft with emotion and shadowed with longing.
