But who had the broken fingers, wrists blue and purple like flower in a picture book? Pepper jars and turpentine and pillars of salt, scattered stems in the bathtub, burning on the stove. Leanne, legs long as that journey west, and the horrible fairy tales about children drowning in the river two miles east, and black burnt suns in the couch, and the walls grow tighter like a horror movie or a booby trap. In Egypt, they call this love.
umm 2 weeks I think?
say something interesting
It’s the part of the story after the girl disappears,
and I know she’s already dead,
but I keep watching
until her friends find her in the boathouse
her limp body dropped over the edge of the dock, bare-
chested and blanched, her hysterical
boyfriend heaving her up and holding her close,
clinging to the sweat of his neck. This is how I miss you:
I am the dead girl’s hand
slipping down her waist and smacking palm up
into the water.
I am ashamed of our distance,
the six hundred miles between our bodies
and how you sob when you tell me that since I’ve gone
what remains is the space where you once grew
around me, the same way a tree absorbs ruin
and the hollow of constructed frames.
On the screen, the boyfriend is now victim,
tearing through woods, clipping every branch
while the killer walks coolly behind him
knowing he will fall eventually.
I have never sacrificed
a virgin with the knives I keep in my kitchen.
There is no wolfs bane or garlic beside my bed.
I sleep unprotected.
But because I know endings, I will never make love to you
in the crypt of an abandoned castle
or parked in the woods with your back pressed against the dash
of a jet black El Camino as the hook hand scrapes closer
and closer to the door handle.
I know about the tissue of the heart,
the persistent pull of muscle and bone,
and the beauty of blonde hair
against the shoulder of night. Because of the Wolf Man
and Frankenstein I understand heartbreak,
how we cannot escape the inevitable
full moon or torchlight, and the way my stomach moves
when you ask me what I am thinking
and I am thinking about someone else.
What I Have Started to Understand About Love
Because I Watch Horror Movies; BY KEITH KOPKA
God keeps a bottle of Advil in his glove compartment. Just in case, ya know. Long car rides. Would be shit to have a migraine. He goes down a side road to avoid traffic. It’s morning. No, night. He’s sexier than you expected. But not like movie star sexy. Or high school quarterback sexy. He’s more like Hot Dad. It’s weird. You pull your skirt down. Adjust your seatbelt. The light bends around him, drips from the window to your thighs. He’s not going to ask you how your night went or if your life is okay or if you can redeem your one fairy tale wish. He’s looking straight into the night, hand tapping on the car door. The stars are winking. He stops at the light, and you wonder if he’s going to kiss you.
Baby doll, rabbit-knees and lips. How to interrupt the tongue of a bridge and not taste the water. How to crack the lights and slip into these walls. Baby doll, five knuckled, two ringed, one mouthed, silk fucked and mean. Ocean big as her thighs. Ocean big as her name. Maybe stones sharp as her neck. Maybe the rise of a crest. All those burning fields, and her fingers were kissing softly, waiting softly.
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