Here is a short story I wrote on the Summer Solstice, June 21st, 2017. I like it a lot, I’m looking for a magazine that is right to submit it to.
I struggle with self-love. Love, to me, is so intimately close and personal that there is no room for imperfection. I know myself too well to love myself. I choose to look for love in places where I can’t find imperfection. God, I struggle with imperfection. I can find relative perfection in things I don’t have the chance to examine, like the sticky hands of someone else’s lover, or fruit taken from said hands to be used in a solstice love spell. I like things I can’t have. It’s compulsive. I struggle with things I can’t have. I can’t help but notice small imperfections in others possessions, things I’m sure they would never notice themselves. The fine blond hair that sprawls like a meadow across his forearms, for example, only visible when hit by the light of the setting sun. Or the stray black hairs that stand alive with static, holding themselves above the hoi polloi of coarse, shaggy hair that touches his collar and his bright pink ears. Thinking of everything I can’t have, I burn a bag of chamomile, lavender, and hemp and pray for self-love in the form of love from anyone else. I breathe in the smoke. I do things with him and around him to make myself known. I don’t eat, or I do. I come home at two in the morning, hair dripping, skin paved with dried chlorine, clothes soaked and smelling like someone else’s pool. I take his towel out of my bag, shocked that I have it. I sleep with it. I owe everything to his real lover. I owe them everything for keeping him away from me. If he was really mine to love, I would have nobody to love. If he loved me, I would be too close to love him. He would cease to be perfect. I know myself too well to love.