Organized by Collection
Heat WaveIn the middle of kissing you and a heat wave, I become grateful that you don’t write about me, that you don’t write at all. I am terrified of the horror in my own history, the trail of bodies I have left, the number of teeth I have pulled from your skull, the times you told me you loved me and I looked away, out the window.
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How would you put me into words, what will you whisper to the women who come after me, who ask you where you learned to kiss like that? My body is a map of a hometown you’ve never left. My collarbones are a cellar in which you’ve been locked your entire life. You have never seen the sun.
And this is how I write about you: cruelly.
I have written about the times I’ve left you cold and shaking, the times I’ve told you that everything you are was not enough.
I haven’t quite found the words for the way your broad shoulders curve when you pull me towards you, against the solidity of your chest. The words are shelter, solidity, sa
Murder in the First, Second, and ThirdThe first time it happened, she was drunk.
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Kissing in his bed, hands locked on his face, how difficult would it be? Phone on the bedside, the password his year of birth and high school jersey number and all she’d have to say was that he was going to spend a few days at her place. His roommates would be disappointed but not surprised. Break your heart, break your heart, that girl’ll break your heart. But none of them would count on this, no one would notice until he didn’t call his father or the unfamiliar smell of human death crept into every reach of the apartment. Keys in his pocket, cutting into her thigh, she could take them and head for the coast. Head for the border, even, and slip away. If she got caught, she’d claim she had no idea what was happening when it happened. If she got caught, she’d smoke cigarettes in prison and cut her hair short. If she got away, she’d never think of him again.
She bit until she tasted blood, and then rolled out