i remember when it went like this:
the boy in third grade
gave me a plush dog for valentine’s day & i named it
love, because how else
could it go? in the books: flip a page
& there he is, applying the band-aid
with soft-gauze lips. like a breeze of liminality:
if there’s any smoke, it’s dispersed
gone, in a second, before a wanderlust
shade of febreeze floods the room
& floating is real.
but close the book & poof,
all that’s real is puncture
hovering at the altar between my two temples,
not my heart, whose space
is crowded with thumping, as if
it recognizes i’m alive but not
breathing. how does this
happen? like this:
like a glass slipper
& leaves & forgets, burdening me
with the memory. can he blame me for asking
where did the plush dog go?
& those clover crowns & the rings
we crafted from card paper on idle nights?
on my nails i trace
the outline of his hand & remember
when it went like this:
alone at recess with a broken leg
until the boy sits down beside me & asks
if he can draw a heart on my cast.
Natasha Bredle is a young (but fortunately not starving) artist based in Ohio. She writes about what she thinks about, which is really too much for her poor brain. You can find her work in Aster Lit, The Aurora Journal, and Second Chance Lit, to name a few.
Write something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview.