Boy #1


By Liza Rosen

Coming from a girl who used to bleed for pleasure, loving you is the most painful form of self-harm that I have ever indulged in. I am running through a forest flooded with an infinity of trees and you are the only living thing that provides me with fresh air; I cannot breathe without your instruction and I'm not sure I want to anyway. I have never felt so wanted as I did when you handed me a slew of broken car parts and you asked me, “How much?”. Why doesn’t the fire burning inside me satisfy the tip of your cigarette? You know you can die from broken heart syndrome; I know you are a black hole, a deadly labyrinth of the damn milky way, but I do not hesitate to be engulfed by the wrath of your adoration; I can’t wait until the sun explodes. I don’t know why I can only feel my heartbeat when you touch me or when I’m going 90 on an interstate; God––how I pray and pray and pray to a god whose existence I question––God, how you electrify me to the point of lethality; the intensity of your gaze replenishes me with enough energy to escape eating for months; I could muster all of the hatred in my soul, but thrust not one ounce of it in your direction; there’s an uncanny comfort in accepting rejection before it comes from you; I can still feel the skin you touched swell in apprehension of our next meeting; please tell me I’m not making this up.

1 comment

  1. A beautiful anecdotal piece matched with a stunning visual.

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