The Anticipation of Consequence

The fools thumb their noses,
Crowding together in defiance of infection,
A riot of individuals blending but not uniting.
They swing their naivete as blunt cudgels,
Recklessly, callously, indiscriminately -
They do not care or notice whom they strike.

Their cheers and screams are muted in the parlor.
The window is closed -
The sashes are drawn.

The clock ticks up and up,
Counting time and counting consequences.

Six feet apart,
Shoulders squared,
We stare into our tea.

"10K today," you say.
Your teacup does not tremble.
The china does not clink.

"Probably," I reply.
The tea gleams darkly.
The liquid swirls turbulently.

We do not yell out the windows.
There is honey in the tea;
Our voices are hoarse.

The clock ticks up into the grim, expectant quiet.

How (Not) to Love a Monster

I can tell you that I love you how ever many times you want, sing it like a litany and a leitmotif in your presence, but there's no veracity inherent in repetition. I cannot learn an emotion like a nineteenth century schoolboy, reciting the Iliad again and again until it comes out perfect, every meter of every verse. But I can say the words if they'll make your eyes slip shut in pleasure and relief, sigh and let your shoulders drop. If I say I love you, then you are safe, you will insist.

But monsters like me don't feel emotions like humans - like you. You can run your palms along my skin and prick yourself on my thorns, and I can marvel at how velvet soft your flesh feels beneath my lips, but I'll always have fangs where you have teeth, and I'll always be hungry where you might be sated. I can tell you that I love you, with forked tongue and golden claws hooked into vulnerable meat. It won't even be a lie - but it can never be strictly true.

And if there are nights where you marvel, I have tamed the beast, as I lay stretched out and bloody at your feet, then that deception is all on you. I will wear the mask you give me, let you fuss with feathers and fine fabrics, dress me up like the solicitous romantic you've always wanted, serenade you with a script you wrote. They will only ever be words and stage directions to me, quietly stalking you through the forest of your illusions and waiting for you to stumble.

The Four Housewives of the Apocalypse

            The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse (although these days they mostly drive sedans and minivans) meet every Wednesday afternoon at the local coffee house, about an hour before they all have to go pick up their kids from their assorted after-school practices.

            “How’s Cindy doing these days?” War asks Pestilence. “How did her audition for the dance team go?”

            Pestilence takes a sip of her free-trade rooibos, expertly avoiding getting her Burt’s Bees lipgloss on the china.

            “She made it of course – I never doubted all those ballet lessons would pay off, although she swears the deciding factor was the hiphop – silly, of course, technique is what really sells coaches – but I don’t know if I’ll let her join.” Her botoxed brow attempts to furrow. “They want her to get some vaccines before she starts coming to practices, and I don’t want to put those poisons in her body.”

            Death sighs over the double shot of espresso she’s nursing. Her long fingers are about the same shade of white as the cup.

            “The medical-industrial complex worms it’s way into everything,” she tuts. “I can’t tell you how frustrating it makes my job. I swear, I have to check my palm-pilot hourly to make sure the list of reaps hasn’t changed. One person will drop off because they went to the ER and another will appear because some pharmacist filled their prescription with a defective generic.”

            Famine pauses in reapplying her Estee Lauder lipstick, her skinny frap going largely ignored. “And they make our government pay for those complications, too! I swear, everyone just wants free hand-outs every which way!”

            “Did you hear they’re talking about slashing the military budget for this Obamacare boondoggle?” War offers up. “As though paying for drug addicts’ fixes is more important than national defense!”

            They all make accordant “hms” of anger.

            “This world isn’t for long at all,” Death says.

            They share small smiles as they all take sips of their drinks.

Other

Sometimes my succubus sits uncomfortably close to the surface, blood hunger, claws, and pointed teeth. I want to purr and lick a lover's blood off my fingertips, kiss their lips and turn their chin red with their own essence. It's a slow and sensual violence, gasps of pleasure indistinguishable from moans of pain. My fangs are sharp and my sex is wet, and I could take you, hurt you, make you breathlessly beg me for every minuscule bit more. I may seem sweet, even laughably harmless, but you would be foolish to forget that my human skin conceals a predator who revels in leisurely taking lovers apart.

A Hard Conversation, draft two

"Is it really so bad that you need to do this?" Kayla's fingers dug into my arm. "Do you really feel so terrible?"

I didn't jerk away, but I found it a bit difficult to maintain eye contact. Her brown eyes shone with liquid, and her lips parted, corners down-turned.

"Yes," I said. If my voice broke, I didn't acknowledge it. "This is not what I want for myself. But -"

Kayla swallowed hard. I took a steadying breath.

"But this is a good offer," I continued. "You know what it's like to live every day of your life without pain, or even fatigue, regardless of which realm you're in. I only get that sort of freedom when I travel."

A tear escaped the bounds of her lashes and trickled down her cheek.

"They're offering me a chance to stay, Kayla. They're offering me so much freedom."

Her nails caught at my skin as she pulled away, crossing her arms over her chest. I knew better than to reach for her, even as my throat closed up and my stomach dropped.

"All you have to do is stay there forever," she finished for me. "All you have to do is leave everyone else in your life behind."

I closed my eyes as I felt my own tears break from my control. My voice came out in a strained whisper.

"That's the gist, yeah."

I Know, Draft Three

"I know."

I didn't look up from the program I had open in Netbeans, continuing to set up the various objects I needed to create a useful calendar for Dr. Nexus's extra credit assignment.

"Good for you," I drawled. "Give yourself a cookie."

"No. I mean, I know why you're always sick."

I took a deep breath and closed my eyes for a long moment, before slowly turning my head, one eyebrow raised sharply, to look at the cretin who dared to address me.

Derek Delphi, the mouth-breathing no-lube jack-off cretin in question, apparently took that as an invitation.

He swung out the chair at the spot next to me, flopping back into it and lacing his fingers behind his head.

"Yup," he repeated. "I know why you're sick."

"Oh?" My voice was dry and flat to contrast his self-satisfied sing-song. "Do share what has taken a platoon of medical specialists more than twenty-one years to fail to discover. And then share your methodology, because I'm sure there's a Nobel prize in your future."

Derek smirked and took in a deep breath that puffed out his chest. I'm sure he heard a drum roll in his head.

I stared at him balefully.

"You're... not human," he declared.

I felt the wings on my back - the ones that weren't really there and that no one could see - twitch, but I managed to control my expression.

Not so much the exasperated sigh.

"An interesting if irrelevant conclusion, Dick."

He dropped his hands and sat up, the back of the chair springing upright with a thump.

"It's Derek."

I turned back to my schoolwork.

"You sure?" I asked lightly. "I thought you knew."

I kept my eyes on my code as Derek huffed, stood up, and hovered over me, casting a shadow on my laptop screen. As far as I was concerned, this interaction was over.

"Snake," he spat.

I continued typing out objects in Java.

It was another few seconds before his shadow left my screen as he stalked out of the lab.

Faces, Draft Two

"Strip that face off," she commanded.

"Are you sure this is the right time?" I asked. My eyes darted, taking in the dark recesses of the concrete nook, the fluorescent light sharply intruding from down the hallway, the slash of my colleague's mouth. We were alone, but my heart continued to race. "I think they might notice if these two disappeared."

She hissed, a low, harsh sound, air against fangs.

"We have bungled this mission. These faces are compromised. We must abandon this strategy and utilize another tactic." Her tongue clicked angrily, three times in quick succession. "You are silly, Salah. It is foolish to become emotionally invested in a face."

I rolled my spine, extending the sharp bones that this face did not wear in embarrassed threat.

"We can still utilize these faces, Grear," I insisted. "Their leader cares for this specimen - " I tapped a claw against my cheek "- and will forgive our transgressions against their laws if I continue to wear the likeness of her mate. We can make this work."

Grear narrowed her eyes in the human expression of anger.

"No. There is too much risk in relying on human affections. I am invoking the Statute of Hierarchy. Strip off that face. Our resources are better expended in a new plan."

My muscles locked, but to dispute the Statute would be to turn traitor. I reached toward my jaw and drew a long, sharp claw down from my ear to my chin, skin separating smoothly from the hard protrusions of my exoskeleton.

Across from me, I watched my ranking officer do the same, the pale skin of the face she had stolen sliding free to reveal the silky green-black curves of her natural form, reshaped to mimic Homo sapiens skeletal system. She tugged as she began to peel the flesh away from her neck, pulling it free of the jagged spurs that had been holding it against her, until it puddled on the concrete at her feet. With a roll of her head and a satisfied chirp, she stepped free.

"Are you done?" she clicked.

I visualized the human leader's features, the shine of light on her too-soft cheeks and the sensation of vulnerably blunt fingertips running down this form's smooth back.

"You are the most beautiful woman in the world," she had breathed in my ear, her too-dull-to-damage teeth grazing my jaw. "You will save us all, Lily."

With a long, human exhalation, I pushed the face of her late lover free from the last spur on my toe.

"Yes, Grear," I clicked back. "I am done."

I tried not to look back as we slipped out of the concrete alcove and crept furtively through the fluorescents toward the exit.

The Weight of Silence

Sometimes, it is far too easy to fill your mouth with silence, to weigh down your tongue with all the words and emotions you tell yourself are better left unsaid. If you're not careful, you start to choke on the backup, gag on your secrets. No amount of dry heaving will stop you from asphyxiating. The only way to save yourself is to speak.

Such a shame that silence is a habit.

The Innocence of Monsters

When I was younger, I didn't know any better than to be exactly who I was, and it confused me when this course of action rarely worked out in my favor. Why should I pretend to be something I was not?

I was very self-possessed, and extremely self-aware - I had confidence to burn. What I lacked was guile, and an understanding that others would happily build my pyre from the kindling I provided. I was a monster who hadn't yet figured out that she was to be feared.

My ignorance made me vulnerable.

I won't say I was cast out of Eden - I never lived in such a place. But, for a time, I was innocent enough to believe that I had a place there.

Worship

My claws are terrible and sharp,
Glinting gold in candlelight,
Darkened blood shimmering with slick, sick
       Promises.

Your lips part,
Gaze swimming upwards toward my eyes.
My fangs bared cruel white -
       Yes, prostrate yourself before me,
       Worship my gilded curves,
       Pray to that which disregards you -
I straddle your lap,
And look right through you.

I will dig my claws into your chest,
Hear your sharp intake of breath before you scream,
Take your vocal cords between my teeth,
Bite off your sounds before they echo,
Admire the harmonies of your gurgles
As liquid heat splatters my chest.

I will eat your heart someday.

You
       will love it.

Serpent and Child

I have been small -
miniscule -
staring down a serpent roughly seven times my size,
discussing with her
the nature of lies.

"Tell me a story,"
says she in my mind.
"Tell me a story
of futures and timelines."

"Truth is construction,
and your wings don't give flight.
You've been larger before,
smaller inside.
Don't tell me you've never thought you could fly -"
This serpent is honest as she spins her lies.

I've tasted colors,
pole danced for pixies,
slept with incubi -
"Don't tell me you've never thought you could fly."

I stare myself down,
Wonder why I'm roughly seven times my size.
I gaze up with trust and wide child's eyes -
"Please tell me you'll be my guide."

Bad Dreams

I hate being alone. I remember a time when that was my biggest fear, when I had nightmares about standing in a concrete courtyard watching a crumpled napkin toss end over end, an urban tumbleweed. I wouldn't even scream, because I knew, with all the logic of dreaming, there was no one around to hear me, not even if I screamed with all the volume of dragon lungs.

I would wake to the stumbling panic of my pulse.

I don't fear being alone so much now - at least, not in the same way. I lay awake in my bed feeling the crack and pull of my joints, the way a recently dislocated finger burns, and my shoulders ache ominously. It is a loud and dark way to be alone, aware of every way in which my body is falling apart. My body has become a courtyard, my pain a series of crumpled napkins.

I do not scream now, either. My pulse may stutter and stumble into the storm winds of eternity - I will not wake up from reality.

Burden of Proof

     Sometimes
I want to crawl out of my skin,
wrap myself around you,
purr into your ear -

It will be okay.

I can prove it to you
with the warm, wet embrace
of my conviction.

My tears are salt-lines on my face
because you are far away,
and there are little barbs
     hooking
me into my flesh.

I have only words to show you
how safe you should be.

That is something worth crying about.

Predator

I could eat you alive. My claws would drip burgundy as I dug into your stomach, and the salted copper of your blood would lash, heated, across my face.

I will lick it all up, tongue curling around my fangs for the last drops, before I am through.

If I cannot have the comforts of sex, I will have the gratifications of violence.

For now, I stretch, toes pointed, hips coiled with intent, purring between my sharpened teeth, kneading the bedspread with unsullied gilded talons.

Lessons in Pomegranate

"Eat this," she says.

I accept the fruit, the smooth red skin of it resting uneasily against my palm. I could drop it. I could walk away. I could forget.

"Don't be shy."

She hands me a knife with a wooden handle. The blade is too long, I think. The metal is not meant to be so dark. Is that blood crusted at the tip?

I stand, arms outstretched, a pomegranate in my left hand and a dagger in my right. My wings droop. My skin is pale in this dark place, an outlier.

Even the colors don't want me here.

She makes no further commands. She leans against a tree trunk, her arms crossed beneath her exposed breasts. She waits.

My physical eyes close. My third eye opens, tingling in the center of my forehead.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

I slice into the pomegranate, the skin resisting. But I force my two hands toward each other, and the fruit's membranes give way with a gush of red fluid that coats my palms and trickles down my arm.

I pause, horrified at the color staining my skin. Surely there's a way to avoid this mess?

Her laugh draws my gaze to her. She shakes her head, her long black hair brushing her shoulders with soft shushes.

"You are hungry. Why not eat?"

A trickle of juice drips from my elbow and spatters my upper thigh.

I look to her again.

Her eyes roll, impatient.

Slowly, fingers shaking, I bring the knife to my lips.

She arches a single manicured eyebrow.

I press my tongue to the cold metal. The juice is sweet, but it cannot cancel out the tang of iron. Surprisingly, the combination is perfectly pleasant.

I let my eyes drift shut as I draw my tongue up the blade, feeling the ridges of the dagger underneath my tongue. There is a flash of pain as I reach the tip, and copper mingles with juice and iron.

I lick my lips afterward, and swallow.

She's right - I am hungry. Not just hungry - starving.

I drop the knife, and it sheathes itself in the blood darkened soil.

I do not care - I don't need it.

With both hands, I bring the pomegranate to my face, digging it open with my nails, letting the juice run down my arms, splatter my legs, spray on my breasts. I expose the ruby-colored seeds, nestled in gristle. They feel like smooth pebbles on my lips. I lick, bite, nibble, suck, burying my cheeks in seeds and skin. the seeds taste sweet, yes, but I can't bring myself to savor the flavor. I spit out the white membranes as they get in my way, gulping down seeds with small crunches and large gusto.

She begins to speak as I eat, abandoning her post by the tree to circle me, running her claws lightly over my shoulders, purring in my ears.

"If you are hungry, you must eat. If you are curious, you must experience. If you wish to understand something, to consume it, sometimes you must destroy it."

She pauses and I use the broad of my tongue to push a seed loose.

"It's okay to be a monster."

I am not sure I agree, but I am hungry, so I eat.

"If you want something, take it. Make mistakes. Make enemies. Eat them too. Wear your teeth."

She moves back in front of me and smiles. Her teeth are pointed, blood-stained ivory glinting in the scarce moonlight that filters through the tree's canopy.

I run my tongue along my lips to capture some of the juice that's coating my chin. They catch on my own teeth with a long scrape of pain. I swallow the blood. Right -  I remember now.

My wings grow warm against my back, the flames brightening with my memories.

She nods in approval, reaching forward and swiping a clawed finger down my arm. She cleans off the juice with her tongue.

"Monsters are gorgeous creatures," she assures me. "We are wise because we have destroyed so much and cared so little for who would preserve it. Monsters break boxes, traditions, and hearts."

She moves in closer to me, close enough I can feel the heat radiating off her hips. She smiles at me. My lips, still coated with blood and juice, part. My breath grows shallow. She plucks one of the few remaining seeds from its nest and presses it between my sharp teeth. I am hungry, so I eat.

She smirks her approval as I swallow, wrapping my lips around her finger and sucking.

I am vaguely disappointed when she draws her hand away.

"You are covered in blood," she observes. "There will always be blood for you. Do not regret it - do not feel guilty. Monsters have their own beauty, and it is at its best in red."

I drop the mangled pomegranate skin when she backs away, letting it fall around the knife's hilt, dismembered and mauled in my frenzied quest to sate my hunger - an unavoidable casualty.

I am soaked in red. It stains my fingers, darker in the lines of my palms, outlining my silver moon and star ring. It is underneath my nails, gathered in the creases of my elbows. There are splatters on my breasts, dribbles on my navel. I stretch my wings, touching them together over my head and making sparks fly into the night sky to be swallowed by the tree's canopy.

My pale skin no longer looks out of place.

I have been here before I realize. The juice was not juice, then, but blood. The pomegranate was someone's heart. I tore their ribs apart, nestled my mouth into the cavity beneath their sternum and listened to them scream as I buried my teeth in their intestines and devoured them. I was alive with fire and dripping blood and I learned how sweet a lover's heart could be.

Now I lean and pluck the knife from the earth. The blade is the perfect length, and the hilt seems to mold to my hands. The weight of it feels like an extension of my self, finally back in place.

If she were more excitable, she would bounce up and down and clap her hands together in excitement. Instead, she stretches sinuously, her lips curved to the side.

"There you are," she purrs. "If you are hungry, you should eat."

Sick Person

I feel like all I can see when I look at myself now is a sick person. I can see the possibilities for what else I might be, for what else I am, but most of those are things that may be beyond my actual capabilities. When you get down to it, I am mangled.

I am a dancer who cannot dance, a writer who cannot hold a pencil, a student who cannot attend classes. I am an extrovert who cannot leave the house, and a reader who does not have the presence of mind to untangle a plot. I am damaged goods.

I am a burden on my family, the back hole in my parents' pockets. I am a bright spot of possibility and potential that society invested in only for my stock to crash. I am wasted.

 I tell myself that no good character is without a weakness, and that the only reason the world can survive my awesomeness is because I am handicapped in this way. What terrible things I would accomplish if I were healthy!

Everything I do is less already, because what more could it have been instead?

I am good with masks. I can play the part of the healthy person for hours at a time! 

It is a facade. It is a sand castle. 

The illusion dissipates. The walls crumble.

I make plans for the future that I cannot count on coming to pass.

Sometimes, I look in the mirror, and all I see is a sick person, staring back at me. Her eyes are shot through with blood, her cheeks are puffy, complexion dotted with thick, red, flaking skin, with bruises under her eyes like she got punched in the face. Her lips are chapped, the roots of her dyed hair are showing, and no one that young should have lines cut so deep in her face. No one so young should bear such obvious evidence of hardship.

Pain is a formidable sculptor.

I want more than anything to look at that sick person with a smile, but I say, "I hate you" several times a day. I thought I was talking to my body at first, but now I'm no longer sure.

How can I love that which is destroying me?

And that's what it feels like.

 IT FEELS LIKE I AM BEING DESTROYED.

It is not artful. It is not beautiful. It is not a romantic story, something for healthy people to read and coo over, sigh and interpret as me being "remade." It is not creation out of chaos, a phoenix rising from its own ashes, oceans receding to reveal land. No. I am not raw iron, and my illness is not a crucible. 

I am a star - a beautiful, young star with an atmosphere and a surface that might have supported life one day - being drawn into a black hole, painfully aware of the inevitability of being stripped down and consumed.

Now - tell me that I am being short-sighted. Tell me that I am being pessimistic. Tell me that I am a brilliant girl who can do anything she wants. Tell me that other people have it worse. Tell me that I should be grateful.

Tell me about this one person you heard about - same problem (ish) as me - who did such and such great thing in spite of their malady. Tell me about a future where they've figured out a cure. Tell me about how I've given up without a fight, and how darkness always comes before the dawn, and how I'm such a strong person, things will get better, you swear.

Tell me all the ways I'm wrong to feel and think that I am just a sick person.

You aren't telling me anything I haven't screamed at myself in the mirror.

Meg

When I was growing up, out of all the Disney princesses, I wanted to be Meg.

Meg was strong, Meg was sassy - Meg didn't need a hero. She played them like bongos, making her own tune out of their libidos. She had long red hair and she didn't hesitate to stare Hades in the face when he was flaming mad or blow out the lantern on Pegasus' head.

To me, at five years old, searching desperately for someone to look up to, Meg was the kindergarten equivalent of a BAMF.

"I'm a damsel. I'm in distress. I can handle this. Have a nice day."

And then I grew up.

I watched movie after movie where the girl just wanted to get the guy - or her interchangeable happily-ever-after. I read books where women were treated like male prizes, or cogs in their plans, or worse - the sex joke for the audience's comic relief - or interchangeable titillation.

And that was when the women were there at all.

But that's movies, you can say. But that's books, you can say. But that's comics, video games, television, blah, blah, bliddy, blah.

That's real life.

I grew up, and I heard my friends say, "You can't get fat, else boys won't like you." I heard my friends say, "I think it's a compliment when boys fight over me." I heard my friends say, "Everything's going to change now that I'm dating So-and-So." I heard my friends say, "He broke up with me - my life is over."

And the boys - the men - y'all think this is silly. That's just women. This is the natural order, the status quo.

You've heard enough feminist rants to know better.

So you write a female character - you don't want her to be like those other women. She cannot be silly. She cannot chase a guy for her happily-ever-after. She's got to be woman PLUS.

Give her some strength. Give her some sass. This woman doesn't need a hero - she can be her own. How? Well, she's got long red hair, and a voice that stinks of sex - she can play men like bongos and stare down her villains even when they're flaming mad.

That makes her a role model.... right?

Meg sold her soul for a guy who screwed her over. Meg's new employer used her, made her a cog in the machinery of his master plan. Meg could play men's libidos like bongos - if the bongos were sentient, and sometimes wouldn't take no for an answer. Meg ultimately sacrificed her life for the immortality of a man. And when he brought her back, it was not about her. It was about the strength of his heart, and not about the strong, sassy woman on his arm.

Hercules got immortality for being willing to sacrifice his life for Meg's. What did Meg get when she died for him?

Is she remembered in the stars?

When I was growing up, I wanted to be Meg.

And then I grew up. I realized that the last thing I ever want to be is Meg - just another misconception of what a woman can be.

Fuck heroes. Fuck being the sex joke, and the titillation. Fuck being a prize, or a cog of mindless machinery. Fuck selling my soul for someone else - self-sacrifice is not a wondrous virtue. Fuck being someone else's damsel in distress.

I want my own goddamned story, and the ending of it sure as hell isn't some guy. There is no need to play men like bongos when you're willing to take a sword and run them through.

Instead, there is a woman. She's strong and sassy, sure. She may or may not be attractive. Sometimes she gets in trouble, and frequently she gets herself out. This does not diminish the times when she must ask for help. She's got her own machinations to put in play, and sometimes she manipulates men using their dicks like joysticks. But other times, she treats them like just one more monster standing in her way that must be slain. She puts herself first, because how can she help others, if she cannot help herself? She may or may not have romantic entanglements, and those entanglements may or may not last.Those people have their own stories - they will not hijack hers. This woman does not care what others may or may not think about her. It doesn't matter if she's fat, or if boys are silly enough to fight over her, because she doesn't want such immature douchebags anyways. She does not expect her life to change depending on the person she dates, because it doesn't affect much more than whom she goes home with at the end of the day.

But no matter what else, at the end of my story, there's just me. The stars hold my image and immortalize my adventures.

And, really, there is no such woman as the one to which Meg is meant to be the antithesis. There's no such woman as Meg, either. We are told again and again and again that both these characters exist. We are told that they are a reflection of who women are and of who women are meant to be. We are told lies about our reality, and we do our best to reshape it in the image of those falsehoods.

I grew up. I do not want to be Meg.

I want to be myself.

Worst Case

"Tell me your story," she said, leaning toward me.

I blinked at her.

She was pretty, I suppose. Her t-shirt was wrinkled, the logo concealed in the folds, and her blonde, almost colorless hair was tangled and frizzing from the storm winds she'd walked in from. She hadn't bothered with make-up, but her attitude rendered the lack of cosmetics irrelevant. She had a calm that seemed to come from knowing that she liked herself, and that no one's opinion was going to change her own on that count. Besides, there's just something attractive about a woman who just doesn't give a fuck if her lips are chapped or if there's a zit coming in next to her nose ring.

"Well?" she demanded.

"Um...." I bit my own lip and watched my fingernails tap the white ceramic coffee cup. "What do you want to know?"

"Your story, doll," she huffed good-naturedly. "How did you end up here, sitting in this coffee shop, on a date with a woman you only know by a friend's description? No one ends up in that situation without a story of some kind."

Wow. She was forward.

I shifted uncomfortably, damning the combination of my flowy short skirt and the too-hot leather seat. I took a long draught of my coffee and winced. It needed a bit more sugar and significantly less heat.

I finally looked at her again.

Her eyebrows were raised, her lips pulled off to one side, slightly upturned. She rested her elbows on the table, arms open, palms up. Her iced chai sat square between them, sweating and puddling.

"I don't really know," I said. "I guess I was... bored?"

She nodded oddly, kind of scooping her chin forward.

"Yeah, bored," I affirmed. "No offense."

She backhanded the comment away with a limp wrist.

"None taken. Boredom can be a great impetus for adventure."

I caught myself looking at the table when I smiled, and I forced myself to make eye contact. I desperately wanted to avoid being rude.

"I'm not actually great with adventures. But yeah, I suppose. It'd been a while, you see. I broke up with my last boyfriend last fall semester...."

I paused, waiting for her to interrupt here.

Her gaze didn't waver. She made that odd scooping nod again, and settled one finger beneath a cheekbone.

I took a deep breath.

"There was just... something missing, I guess. The dates were fine. The sex was fine." I crossed my legs tightly under the table. "He was nice enough."

I settled my hands in my lap, pressing my skirt down my thighs, as I shrugged my shoulders.

"I thought it might get better after that. You know, since being single's supposed to be so much fun."

She chuckled at that. "Who told you that lie, sweetie?"

I found I liked the way her eyes crinkled.

I quickly involved myself in taking a sip of my too-bitter and too-hot coffee.

"Society, I suppose," I muttered, setting the mug back on the table with a clink that startled me with how loudly it rang through the coffee shop.

Was it quiet enough that people could hear our conversation? I eyed the young man at the next table over, his head dropped into his hands as he pored over a textbook. I took an unsteady breath when I realized he had long white wires dangling from his ears.

"I'm guessing that single-dom didn't turn out so hot," she prompted, gently.

"Uh, yeah." I tried to smile at her. "It was awful. I did single things. You know. I went to parties. I went to bars. I went to clubs. I had bad sex and worse hookups."

She scoop-nodded again, eyes intent on me.

I laughed a little, but it was more bitter than mirthful.

"It wasn't all that fun. The guys - " I held my mouth open for a moment, and then clicked my lips shut. "The sex - " I tried again, only to bring my hand to my lips as I faltered once more.

Her eyebrows rose. I probably blushed.

"It was... predictable," I concluded, dropping my hand onto the table, palm down. "It always went the same way."

Her finger moved from her cheek to her lower lip, and tapped once or twice. Her nails were unshaped and unpolished.

"How so?"

I sighed, and pursed my lips.

"I'd meet a guy. I'd think he was reasonably attractive, maybe even funny, or smart. If he seemed interested, I'd let him know I was down, but not, you know, locked down. I'm not an insta-relationship girl."

I found it easy to meet her gaze when I said this.

"We'd have sex or hook up or not. Sometimes I'd see him again after that, maybe two, maybe three times. But nothing ever really..."

I waved my hand vaguely above my coffee mug.

"Manifested?" she offered.

"Yeah." I bit my lower lip. "And it was boring."

"Huh." She tapped her lip with her finger again, shrugging with the corners of her mouth. "So, what made you think you might try a blind date with a woman instead?"

My laugh was reflexive. I felt warm coffee coat the side of one finger as I scrabbled at my mug for a sip.

She gave me a moment, taking a long draw of her chai through her straw.

I wiped my hand off on my skirt.

"Well...." My voice came out high-pitched. I cleared my throat.

"Well, I was just... ready for a change, I guess." I watched spilled coffee wend its way down the white ceramic to the table. I didn't want to see her react. "Jessa's always been more flexible than I am, and, um... she has fun, you know? Her love life doesn't seem formulaic at all."

I snuck a quick look at her. She noticed, and smiled encouragingly.

"So.... I dunno. I - I asked her if she knew anyone."

My skin peeled away from the leather seat as I fidgeted.

"And, well, you know Jessa...."

She grinned at me now. I hesitated, but smiled with her.

"Yeah, I know Jessa." Her hand dropped to the table, making it very easy to see how pretty that smile made her. "The phrase 'social butterfly' was coined to describe your roomie."

"Seriously," I agreed. "She was the kid that 'stranger danger' was meant to scare to safety."

When she laughed at that, her chuckle moving up to a note high enough to be a hiccup, I really did grin at her. She was cute.

"But, yeah," I continued. "Of course Jessa knew someone. She started telling me about this marvelous person."

"Yeah?" She leaned back a little.

"This marvelous person who likes to go white water rafting and mountain climbing and is up for trying just about anything once and wants to be a history teacher and makes plate armor on the weekends...."

A small blush crept into her cheeks and she briefly pressed on hand to the nape of her neck. The folds of her t-shirt shifted, and I saw that the logo was the ship Serenity.

"Oh, yeah," I said. "She just went on and on describing you, telling me all these things that you like and do and dream. Like, she told me that you volunteer at the animal shelter repairing fences because you can't have a dog in your apartment, but miss being around animals. All this detail. And I was... mesmerized."

The pitch of my voice dropped on that last word.

We smiled at each other over our drinks. In tandem, we both took sips.

I didn't notice or care how bitter the last dregs of my cooling coffee were.

Our empty cups clicked as we set them back on the table.

"Anyways, Jessa waited until I was all but set to marry you, sight-unseen, before she slipped in, 'Oh, yeah, and she's a girl.'"

"Yeah?" she asked. Her tone was light, but she was watching me very carefully. "Did you freak?"

I smoothed my skirt down again, recrossing my legs.

"A little," I conceded. "But... I dunno...." I laughed, sincerely this time.

"I guess you just sounded like such a wonderful person, I... didn't really care. I wanted to meet you. And... I figured - " I threw my hands up into the air beside my head. "What the hell? Worst case, I don't like you and you don't like me, but at least I did something different."

She rolled her lower lip into her mouth, and looked up at me through her lashes, slow and smoldering.

"Now that's a story, doll."

"I mean.... I guess."

"So.... Is this the worst case scenario?" She eyed me sort of sideways with the question, kind of rocking side to side in her chair.

"I-" My words got caught in a smile, and I bit my lip closed, glancing toward my shoulder and then back at her. "I don't think so."

I reached across the table and lightly touched the back of her hand, just the tips of my first three fingers resting on the tendon of her index finger. Her skin was soft, and warm, and just a little bit damp from the condensation on her cup.

"I don't think so," I repeated.

Fragile

I manage to forget -
 Mostly.

There are sunny days where I luxuriate
in the warm red color inside my eyelids,
mapping delicate capillaries as if they lead to my future.
I trace my upward trajectory with a twisted half-smile.

If there's irony in that smile,
it's because the edges of my vision
aren't meant to tilt away from me.
My head is only tangentially related to my spine:
a sweet, but too-eager kiss could decapitate me.
My smiles have never stood on steady ground.

But it's a sunny day,
so my sweat sticks my warm skin to a plastic lounge chair,
And yesterday -
banging on the coffin door as loam sifts down,
desperate coughs fighting adrenaline and soil to get to oxygen,
unable to see even the bloody ends of my fingers in the too-close darkness,
let me out let me out let me out! -
is just another half-repressed vision,
a scene from a story I thought about writing.

I tuck my broken nails inside a fist.

These sunny days are curtains I draw closed
around the mussed and crinkled sheets
of the hospital bed I clambered from -
Conceal it, hide it, call it by another name -
The nurses do not change the linens.

Air and Anchors

I wish you were here. I miss you like a postponed inhalation. I need your warmth here beside me, reassuring me, telling me my fears are invalid, that I am not simply second best, my friend's runner up. I am in her shadow in many ways - I need my relationship with you to not be one of them.

I am terrified, like a child chained below water, fighting an anchor to have my next breath be air. I know that, in some way, you will always love her. She shaped you, like a stake guides the growth of a tree. But that part of you is now formed - it is no longer necessary for the stake to be there. You must let her go.

I'm not sure I can stay if you insist on keeping yourself tethered to her.

I don't know why you're not here tonight. Last night, you nuzzled close to me at the dinner table, ignoring our friends, and sighed about how much you missed me, that it had been too long. I exchanged a sardonic glance with her across the table. We could both read the body language of everyone around us, and could see your friend's defiance - "I slept with her, so what?" - and your guilty jealousy.

I want to believe that you missed me. I know it's more likely that you wanted to miss me, wanted to deny that you really missed her - even though you've spent the last nine months claiming to be in love with me. I hope hope hope that you really did miss me.

"I want to see you tomorrow," you said. "I don't care if it's not until late," you said. "Even if it's just for a few minutes," you said.

But now that she is gone, you are elsewhere.

If my prose hammers at your chest like a series of dangerous accusations, striking far too close to the truth for your comfort, I am not sure I am sorry.

When you and your friends parted ways from us last night, she and I made new friends to spend the evening with. I complained to them of how stifled I felt with you, bitter that I felt so consumed by you when you seemed to be feeding yourself to this expired, now out-of-circulation idea of my friend, your old flame.

I said semi-awful things aloud, but privately called to mind every reason I fell in love with you.

Your sweetness.

Your delight in puns, and the way you always call me "goofy" when I share one.

Your vaguely super-villainous laugh, the one you emit when something funny slowly soaks into your mind, gaining humor as it goes.

Your steady, calm tolerance when I'm going over the edge, losing my temper over small fish in small ponds.

Your eager willingness to discuss the brokenness of society's arbitrary sexual mores, and the way your eyebrows crunch toward your nose when you point out that same arbitrary brokenness in yourself.

Your desire to desire to have adventures, even as you sit on your couch to play the same old video games, and fall comfortably into worn routines.

I wonder if I will ever really be able to appreciate these things again. Because, my love, I need to talk to you, to ask you about my friend, your old flame. I need to see you, to have you bring it up, address it, say a eulogy for the situation and for your love for her. Then I will be able to smile, forgive you for leaving me uneasy, and continue on with you, indulging my love. The anchor will fall away from my ankle, and I will gulp in air with the appreciation of a girl who had almost accepted that she was going to drown.

But if you wait for me to bring it up, and then lie about your feelings, I will know. I will know that you did not miss me. I will know that, for you, I am second best, my friend's runner up. I will know that your stupid, impotent jealousy over her is more important to you than the past nine months, when you claimed to be in love with me. Worst of all, I will know that those semi-awful things I said to our new friends were true, and I will be forced to break my own heart as I break it off with you.