I remember when we first met; both so naïve. You, a horny up and cummer, excited about safe sex and the prospect of collecting vast amounts of intercourse paraphernalia. Me, a young rubber, looking to wrap myself around someone, catch their semen, prevent STDs, be tossed in the trash, and finally allowed to die.
Of course, that’s not what happened. No, instead you left me in this drawer. At first, I thought I had failed. “If it’s your genitals going unprotected, why am I the one who is hurting?” Eventually, I realized abandoning me meant you had been abandoned as well. We were united in our separation, both with a piece missing. We learned that emptiness is corporeal. That’s why, each year, you’d take me to the next dorm, and the next.
Here, in the bottom drawer, with the dust bunnies and physical syllabi, we never have to end. The shadows cast through the cracks dance so vividly. I am being torn open, stretched over your half-flaccid steed, and flung into the sunset of another. I cannot be left in the trash can, dropped in a Home Depot Parking lot, or strewn about South Campus. You’re where I’m meant to be. It was always my imagination.