I do not like being needed.

But I do so love appreciation.

I am a gift-giver, not a caregiver.

My friend Heidi, sensuality herself, dreams that she and I are sitting in a bar. This bar is built around a voluptuous pomegranate tree. The juices from the hanging fruit drip into our glasses while she and I sloppy sip the thick, red nectar like martinis.

Alex, my ray-of-light little bro, dreams that my pomegranate explodes unleashing swarms of tiny spiders.

In an email, Jennifer, intuition’s personal masseuse, writes that she “thinks of me every day and has found a new passion for the pomegranate,” while Patrick, my artistic soul mate, gifts me at the turning of the year with his physical presence and a pungent pomegranate candle.

I have now one of the suspicious swollen fruit balanced plumply upon my belly.

I began to bleed today, lightly, for the first time in four months.

I dreamt about my grandma for the fourth time this week. She died in summer, those forever June evenings.

There’s a difference between writing about bleeding and bleeding. There’s a difference between loving and being loved. There’s a difference between giving because it is the role you take upon yourself, and giving because you wish to please another.

There is no difference between you and me.

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