I don’t want to leak out my memories onto your pillow, I’ve already left so much of me there. At night I can feel my dreams crawl out and inject themselves into your side, I can feel the veins of the pillows pulsing through to each other. I can’t afford to lose more of me to your sheets, washed away when laundry day comes.
I try shoving toilet paper in my ears but the roll never fits. I try to choke down a paper towel holder to furnish my body for you, please clean up after yourself, try not to make a mess. No matter how many paper products I fill myself with I can feel them all spill out on your bed, I can feel them crumble and mold before my head hits the pillow.
I try not to think of things I want to keep hidden but of course, then, that is all I will think of. I don’t want you to see my high school fights or the fear of losing a friend group that you’ve never met. I want to hide away all the feelings of not being enough in school and shove it under the rug where I keep my feelings of not being enough for you. I super glue the edges to make sure none of them can escape.
But that doesn’t stop your crowbar.
The way your hand traces my body, I ooze with wanting, I drip with secrets, I am soaked with impatience. Touch me again and I’ll lose all my insides. If you linger over me then I might just emulsify. Then you can wash me out of your sheets.
Victoria holds an MA in English from the University of Maine. She is the author of a collection of short stories My Haunted Home (FC2) and chapbook Death and Darlings (Bottlecap Press). Overall, she hopes to discomfort, humor and charm.