Britney

I am in a house. There are no windows but I can see what outside looks like. There are three doors behind me. I open each one to find a body. They are all me, in different stages, like a metamorphosis with bad stills. I died happy in the first—alive at the very least. My jaw is slung open in a permanent scream and my fists have not unclenched, although the rest of me has. The second is after the shock, in my angle of repose. This one does not speak to me because she has finally been ended. No specter ready for a haunt. I shut her eyes so she may see the rest that has become as foreign as the boy. His scent fills the room and I hold in my bile as I close the door so our suffering doesn’t overlap.

The third is a sound bite of horror and I close my eyes almost immediately. This is always my reaction to a mirror. Whenever a clear image of myself is revealed I reduce it to a distortion and bring back my mantra: “itcantbeitcantbe.” I don’t wear acceptance well. I poke too many holes.

Everything has come down on me as quickly as my mother’s death notification and I should be used to this kind of lottery pain but I was wrong again. I made a pact with God and the bastard had His fingers crossed the whole time. Another man eating a promise for dinner. ♦