The truth is I haven’t been bloody in a long time. Our hometown is famous in my mind, despite being a mirror of modern rural America. It used to have ciphered alcoves that we wrote our way into. It used to be chipped and painted in colors you couldn’t reckon. In my head, his fingertips were razor blades. In reality, he was just as much skin and bones as myself. I snapped my fingers and the world was neon or pastel or shredded grass. The truth is I don’t know if I was ever bloody. Or if I just liked the drama of his flickering kitchen light. If I say my childhood room is full of broken glass, it’s from more than the day my snow globe collection collapsed. My friends could be clouds, river rocks, or pallets of a bridge. The truth is, I don’t know what their insides are made of. And I’m too far in my delusions to ask. My midnights are always a full moon and I pretend yours are too. That you’re here with me. And that never changes.
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