I\u2019m not sure. That is to say I\u2019m unsure about the lighting. It really brings out that milk mustache from six years ago and your skin looks like hot tar at noon in August. I can\u2019t touch you like that. My skin will flake off and there won\u2019t be anything left for you to steal from me. I know what you do at night. I know the way you peel back the layers, try to get into my insides. Try to steal what you know isn\u2019t yours to take. But I let you do it. There\u2019s something about your fingernails that makes my flesh jump into your hands. There\u2019s something about the way you blink that makes me play dead while you massage the life out of me. There\u2019s nothing I can\u2019t fake and there\u2019s nothing you won\u2019t store in your trapper keeper. I found it last night. I won\u2019t tell you but you\u2019ll know I know. You won\u2019t stop and I won\u2019t either. I wish there was a way to place a double-sided mirror on our ceiling. I want to know what\u2019s behind you, behind me, on the other side. I want to place a video camera there and watch what you do to me. I want to breathe on the glass and write your name on the inside. You\u2019ll never see it, but I\u2019ll know. Maybe it\u2019s because of how you used to peel dried Elmer\u2019s off your palm, maybe it\u2019s because I taste like glue, maybe it\u2019s because you want to bring me to show and tell twenty years ago. I\u2019m not sure. That is to say I\u2019m unsure about your freckles and how they jump off your skin at night. If I could trap them in a jar I would keep them like fireflies until they slept heavy on the bottom. I would cut your hair and knit a scarf. I know what you have in that binder. I know why I find it hard to inhale. I know why I have no voice to speak to you. But I let you. I\u2019m sure of that. As sure as I am that you look good in any light, even if it means I\u2019ve melted into the wall. Even if it means there\u2019s no more of it, of us, or the freckles. I can\u2019t live in your mailbox. I can\u2019t sleep in your envelope. I can\u2019t die in your sock drawer. But I will.<\/p>\n\n\n
Alexis Pope<\/strong> is a writer of poetry and tiny fictions. She resides in Akron, which has recently been named “The Meth Capital of Ohio.” She doesn’t use meth, only massive quantities of caffeine. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in PANK, Metazen, Breadcrumb Scabs, Rubbertop Review, <\/em>and elsewhere. <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" I\u2019m not sure. That is to say I\u2019m unsure about the lighting. It really brings out that milk mustache from six years ago and your skin looks like hot tar at noon in August. I can\u2019t touch you like that.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":384,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":[],"categories":[9926],"tags":[21999],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/libblogs.luc.edu\/requited\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/448"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/libblogs.luc.edu\/requited\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/libblogs.luc.edu\/requited\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/libblogs.luc.edu\/requited\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/384"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/libblogs.luc.edu\/requited\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=448"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/libblogs.luc.edu\/requited\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/448\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":1809,"href":"https:\/\/libblogs.luc.edu\/requited\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/448\/revisions\/1809"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/libblogs.luc.edu\/requited\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=448"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/libblogs.luc.edu\/requited\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=448"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/libblogs.luc.edu\/requited\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=448"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}