photo: yet another sunset in Arcadia, CA

Yesterday in the shower I washed dried cherry juice from under my nails and remembered how at dinner I inspected a heart between my fingers and cut it open with a knife. The blade was red and I tried to press the plump flesh to my lips in hopes it would make me beautiful.

I am a villain of this story, which is really to say I am the writer who is playing all of their characters at once. I am the god, I am the heartbroken and the heartbreaker, I am the sadistic manic who sits quietly in the corner and consults the main character to get the hell over herself.

The water washes away my dramatics, and underneath I am a canvas of bitter pith covered in the crescent indents of a forgotten fury. I am the sister who pretends to sleep when the ants go mad. I am an evil I haven’t met before. Even after the days have gone by, I look at my pink fingertips and swear I can still feel the red.