you're a hideous thing inside [x]

Wordlessly, he grabs my hand and presses a piece of gum into my palm. His fingers are cold, rough from the dry air, but he gives me what must be meant as a reassuring squeeze. I don't flinch, still trying not to retch.

I can smell the spearmint. The scent is too crisp, too fresh and cold against the copper taste in my mouth. He drops my hand, goes to stroke my hair back from my shoulders. I unwrap the gum, flashing bright green even in what I know must be total darkness for human eyes. I can smell the spearmint as I put it in my mouth, but know I won’t taste it.

I chew slowly, wishing it was enough, as he cups my neck to bring me close and lick a stripe of blood off my cheek, and I try not to shudder.

-------

your heart I couldn't win [x]

It's my turn. I can feel Liam's gaze on me, maybe on my face, maybe on my ribs, maybe on my fingers that won't stop moving. I'm making typing motions on my hipbones, but words don't appear. I'm not thinking of any. I'm thinking of the cracks in the plaster on the ceiling, the slight breeze from the open window, the time.

"Becca?"

"I have a word document that's just a list of reasons not to kill myself."

I listen for the grind of his teeth, the click of a swallow, something that indicates his surprise, but: "Am I on it?"

I blink, not turning. I want to tear his hair out, but I settle for digging my nails into the mattress. The sheets are cool under my fingertips. I want to grab his hand.

"Hey. Am I on it?"

"Hmm." 

"I should be."

"You should say 'fuck' more." I've memorized the way his mouth frames it, his teeth flicking over his lower lip, mouth hanging slightly open after k. He always puts a little too much emphasis on the word, like he's 12 and he doesn't know how to use it casually yet. "It's your turn."

cold blooded other; a prologue [x]

The bottle is frozen to her palm, froth bubbling up and over and trickling down her fingers. A barely audible gurgle is masked by the whistle of air through the open window, the curtains snapping. She licks her lips. She makes no sound, doesn't breathe; listens to the single stuttering heartbeat in the room.

The only thing she wears is a white silk shirt. It does not belong to her; much like the blood slowly congealing against her breastbone, it belongs to the man she currently sits astride. His top jeans button is still undone.

She sits back, tongue darting out again to chase a stray drop from her chin. She looks down and wrinkles her nose at the rapidly staining collar of the shirt; sighing, she pulls at it and inspects the damage. Her fingers swipe through the liquid that has made its way from her collarbone to ribs, and she sucks some off her thumb absently. She takes a swig from her beer and wrinkles her nose again, and holds the bottle up to her face to inspect the label.

She stands, muttering under her breath about "cheap shit." She pads across the cool hardwood of the apartment's floor, and blood starts to drip down to her belly button in a single crawling dribble. She feels its progress as she walks into the darkened kitchen and bends to inspect the wine rack.  A drop lands on the tile, another on her bare foot. 

She ignores this, taps a rust-smeared finger against each bottle, her nail making a 'clink' against the hard glass bases. She pulls out a white and a red, studies both, places them next to each other on the counter. After a few moment's deliberation, she points at one, then the other, "eeny, meeny, miny, moe, catch a tiger..."

The man in the living room moans softly. Her pointing finger pauses on the white, so she replaces the red and finds a corkscrew. Rather than search for a glass, she drinks wine warm and straight from the bottle. Perching lightly atop the counter, head cocked towards the noise, she sips patiently. She rubs the spot off her foot with the cuff of the shirt. The man groans again, and she can again hear the slight bubbling of blood in his throat. Hunger stirs low in her stomach.

Acute

Sometimes, she knows which nights will be the bad ones.

Her skin itches. Like tiny things are running up her bones, she imagines she can feel their claws snicking and catching as they make their way. Shoulder to shoulder, rib to rib, scratch-sliding down her hips, this is how she knows where this night will end.

She might reach for a cigarette, a textbook, her fingers might just open and close and open. Snatching, shaping the air's path, imagining molecules whistling all the way down when she abruptly drops her hands to her lap.

needles

Christmas songs are okay after Thanksgiving,

but not trees

we make fun of the people who've already got one

shining in the window

I mean, I could understand lights

even the strobe action at the house on 100th

my sister loves that display

(the one with the deer that move,

the giant plastic snow globe thing)

but she still tsks at the evergreen upstairs

it'll be dead in two weeks

my mom thinks it's sweet, so my dad stops muttering

about ridiculous and November

my sister restarts her campaign for a real one

before all-nighters were commonplace

(when I had to take naps all day

to prepare for New Year's Eve)

my sister and I hid under our comforter and waited

for the pitter-patter of hooves

on the roof (two apartments above our heads, but

we were listening hard)

but the presents Santa brought us came after we fell asleep

stacked high on our dining room table

not like the songs say, but we didn't care

(because presents)

Mom always set out a little fake tree in the middle

usually not even green

Dad, who grew up too poor for a Douglas or Fraser

loved the homemade ornaments

(the kind seven year olds make in school,

with their faces in the middle)

my mom, who grew up in a house

with a big fir every year

(bought two or three weeks before, tops)

made lots of fruitcake and stayed quiet

we drive by a vendor, probably a boy scout troop

$65! $100! Emma talks about how Christmas cheer

is priceless

ABCs

you were lonesome

but babies don't know that word

they know how to cry until their parents come

you lay in your crib and you wailed

chubby fingers reaching in the dark, expecting Mama

but Mama was plugged in, tuned out

fingers to temples because your noise pierced

and Daddy was already gone, Mama

didn't teach you the word for him,

though sometimes her crying did 

you plugged in, tuned out

because she told you something was missing

but not that he had a name

your father, the asshole, good-for-nothing

she told you, we don't need him

but left a hole gaping in your chest

something you pawed at when telemarketers

asked for the man in the house

or on the third Sunday of every June

your mother doesn't believe in "Hallmark holidays" anyway

sentimentality was never her strong suit,

nor was teaching you baseball or getting home

before midnight every night because she 

stayed late, worked hard to support you

she told you, but you could smell the whiskey

Mama was working hard to form 

her words and not paw at 

her own gasping chest

pathos

at the end of each day,

we sit across from each other

and practice telling the truth.

"fuck. ask me again."

"concentrate."

"I'm trying."

they taught you what you couldn't say

before fingerpaints, shoelace tying

my mouth formed pretty stories on its own

“why were you crying?”

“no reason.

“shit.”

you punch lockers when you’re frustrated

I sing to myself

tell people it’s the lullaby my mother sang

“where’s your mother?”

“she died when I was-”

“liar.”

you only know the truth

because a thief thinks everyone steals

as hard as I’ve worked to have no tells

“what does your father do for a living?”

“he. is a…”

“why are you hesitating?”

I intercept teacher’s notes,

you hide bruises,

we’ve got so many games

“are you okay?”

“are you?”

“I asked you first.”

“I asked you second.”

“I don’t know.”

“I’m fine.”

we slink home

congratulate ourselves

the progress made

bon appétit

it takes me a long time to answer,

because I take time to taste the words

at first they come burning up my throat,

like bile, like yesterday's food,

and crash against my teeth

do my eyes bulge,

with the effort it takes to keep them behind pressed lips?

I will hang on to them for another moment

rearrange them with my tongue

(just like tying cherry stems,

I taught you how to do that, once upon a time)

they'll clack against my teeth

until I open my mouth-

but I'll rethink the sentence

swallow it down hard

watch carefully for the word "unbelievable,"

you'll see how it takes effort to keep down

maybe I'll cough, shift in my chair, while

the word "waiting" settles itself in your mouth

you'll savor it, decide whether it's worth saying

while I dislodge "cruel" from my windpipe.

a bitter tasting word,

and I want to spit it out.

I wonder what you were craving

maybe I'll just go for something simple, bold-

"I hate you"

but no, I want this flavor to last

something that will distort the taste of food

hours later

so something spicier, maybe

"I fucking hate you"

(you taught me that word, once upon a time)

that'll work, right?

I bet you were expecting sugar,

accepting your apology with a smile

I can feel that taste,

sticky, sickly sweet, crawling up

no doubt that'd be a treat to you

but all the witticisms seem to spoil on my tongue

I taste salt

axis

pulling each other though the dark

hand on the curve of a hip,

the swell of a shoulder,

every which way as the sidewalk spins

I try to remember how to say ‘tectonic’

because it’s an earthquake,

us spilling out on the pavement

something about the shifting

in my stomach;

and my ankles rolling as I fall back,

because you shriek

don’t step on the cracks,

something about backs but I’m laughing

heaving and hard;

and the heaviness of my head,

pressed against your chest

aftershocks when your hands reach

needing balance and finding

my cheeks, breasts, elbow,

tickling, curious, and I smile

when they brush my lips,

and my world is crumbling down

you didn't need to tell me how good she tasted

her mouth was minty and fruity 

and kind of sweet 

all at the same time, yeah, I know

the secret's in her gum, you probably didn't see

she spat it out right before she turned to you,

looked up through her eyelashes,

(the most important part of seduction:

eyelash batting constantly

it is fucking key)

and you were done for-

yeah, I know, I knew before you did

that her eyes change green and grey

when she looks at you that way it's just

mesmerizing, right?

right- that's her good side, the one

with the beauty mark, (but not really,

it's just a mole. it's probably 

cancerous. whatever.) so she makes sure

that you're looking right at it, thinking

what an endearing flaw you have

all the better to eat you with,

my dear.

so you don't need to tell me

and you don't need to apologize

for enjoying it