Fiction (II)

No pattern in their breathing,
shared breathing
unfamiliar meetings
revisited.
She licks her lips
combs her teeth
he watches
something underneath
laying, lying,
turning.
Do you see me?
Breathing,
beating, beating.


breathing.

Clutch

I am not safe in his arms like he tells me I am. He plants his promises inside my chest, and they germinate and thrive. They surpass expectations. My expectations win blue ribbons. He doesn't want his prize. Heaviest, biggest, most. Superlatives tied to his hands and feet, pulling him down. I indulge in his uncertainty. "But what if you're my girl?" I revel. I am not safe in his arms because he will let go when we start sinking. But he doesn't know that yet. He is the champion of three small words, repeated three hundred times over, dubious. He doesn't know that I am a tornado, full of hail and wind and broken bits, accidental but damaging nonetheless. I hurt him, so I hurt myself in turn, indulging in small pinches and the clarity of starvation. I am his selfish consolation gift, screaming, needing what is not my place to need. The smallness inside of me wants him to take me away. It wants to take him away. It wants him to lay next to me, to be small like me. I am my smallness. And what strong arms could hold me?