Loneliness Is My Contraception

Joseph Fino

My friend tells me he was born 1984. I was born then. My friend tells me he ran cross country in middle school. I ran track. My friend tells me he ran a marathon. I ran one last year. My friend tells me he ran his in ‘81. I tell my friend to shut up. He never talks again and I haven’t run a day in my life.

My dad tells me about his wife. “She’s kind of a beautiful woman.” I remind him he’s not married. “She has the hair of a lioness.” I don’t even know what that means. “She prowls around with intent.” I remind him he walks around aimlessly and wonder why mom didn’t leave him sooner.

My brother tells me I don’t understand anything. I tell him I understand that. He tells me I need to grow up. I kick him in the groin and tell him to man up. He cries like me.

My mom tells me she loves me. She confuses me with herself. She says maybe she’ll come by and take me out sometime. I say okay and spit in her face when she never shows up.

I get up in the morning because I don’t go to bed at night. Alcohol is my Nyquil.

My girlfriend thinks she loves me. I tell her she doesn’t know me. She tells me I need to learn how to open up. I get inside her and feel alone. My girlfriend thinks we should’ve used contraceptives. I tell her loneliness is my contraception and hand her a coat hanger. She cries; I take her reason for living, some food, and I leave.

The man on T.V. tells me to accept Christ into my heart because he died for me. I give that man the finger, thank Jesus for his kind gesture, slit my wrists and wake up in the hospital. I cry because I’m not in Hell.

The nurse asks if there is anything I need. I tell her yes, but I don’t know what it is. She tells me her name is Mary and to let her know if I think of it. I tell her not to bother coming back. She pulls up a chair and doesn’t leave. I don’t look at her and she doesn’t take her eyes off me. She touches my hand and it stings at first. I wonder why she’s still here. She says it’ll be okay and I want to crawl in her arms and cry. I look at her, she says it again, and I do. She cries for me, and I wish she was mother.