Prose
"An Open Letter" — published in Happy Captive Magazine
Dear [REDACTED],
There are many ways that I’ve written and rewritten this letter in my head. On certain days, when the memory of your blatant lie clouds my judgement, I feel an acidic anger bubble in me to the point that my words are dripping in the pain that you and I both caused. Other days, after yoga has centered me, I can find it within myself to forgive you and only hope that you don’t let someone hurt you the way that you hurt me. Maybe today will be a mixture of my anger and my kindness and every other emotion you evoke from me. All I know is that this is the last I have to say regarding this mess.
Mistake No. 1: Games. Learning to read Mandarin would be easier than learning how to read you. Your enigmatic and elusive aura isn’t endearing; you’ve caused far too many hours of me lying awake in confusion over how to interpret your compliments. It took me a year and a half to finally fess up my feelings, so I come off as a hypocrite for criticizing your muddy actions. But you can’t flirt with me day after day and then wonder why I’m neck-deep in love with you. (I’m not the only girl you’ve done that to, and you know it.)
Mistake No. 2: Beauty. My long nose, high forehead, pointed chin, and mousy hair are all things that I’ve struggled to accept. Though you deny it, I can’t help but notice the pattern of blonde, thin, (so incredibly conventionally attractive) girls that fit into your frame of desires. Maybe that’s why you neglected to notice our late night conversations, or your paragraphs of much-needed venting that I patiently read, or our inside jokes that made your imperfect teeth break into a grin, or the plethora of interests that you and I shared. Helpful hint: chasing solely after her outside will only lead you to disappointment toward her inside.
Mistake No. 3: Lies. When you “let me down easy,” when you didn’t judge me or embarrass me for the word-vomit of emotions I texted you at 1 a.m., I gushed to my friends about what a great guy you were, especially in comparison to the boys who’d rejected me in the past. Two months later, your words reek of complete and utter bullshit. Your reason for turning me down was because you claimed that you weren’t ready for a relationship anytime soon; how was your date with [REDACTED] last week?
The truth is that you weren’t ready for me. I would have loved the hell out of you.
Perhaps I already loved the hell out of my imagined image of you. When I look at you, I see someone who’s desperate for any love he can get, especially from someone with an attractive exterior. I don’t see someone who would hold me when I cry, or love every inch of me. I can’t fault you for that, it wasn’t the real you that I loved either.
I know we’ll still remain the good friends we began as, and I know my resentment will eventually fade. Maybe I’ll even learn something because of what you did to me.
I’m empty at this point, and my conscience wants me to end with this: I don’t want you to get hurt, so please be more careful than I was.
The last of my love for you,
[REDACTED]
"road trip" — published in inklings arts and letters
CW: Abortion
1. Royal Pine
She hadn’t seen him in three months. She hadn’t been inside his car in over a year. Her bracelet no longer dangled from his rear-view mirror. Her lip balm no longer took up residence in the crook of the passenger seat door handle. Her hands sat in her lap instead of her left palm resting on his thigh and her right swimming on the wind out the window.
His car still ran smoothly. His bedroom had always been a mess of pop tabs under dressers and condom wrappers wedged between mattresses, but his car remained nearly impeccable. His pride and joy. She told herself that his car was the reason why she was here. His car was reliable, clean, able to drive 300 miles of corn fields there and 300 miles of corn fields back.
2. Hold the Line
Similarly to Ben (the Acura MDX, named after the Michael Jackson song), his taste in music had hardly changed. Perhaps his affinity for music exclusively released before either of them had been born should have been a red flag. But she hadn’t minded it then, and she almost got emotional when hearing it again now. She had hormones to blame that on, not genuine emotion.
The switch between pop synths and electric guitar solos was the only sound that filled the sleepy space between them. They’d left at 7:00, earlier than either of the night owls ever otherwise attempted to be awake by. She sipped at the energy drink he’d offered her when he picked her up and tried not to think about the cardiology article she’d read last week about the negative effects of caffeine on heart health.
3. Dobbs v Jackson Women’s Health Organization
He was the only one who knew about her situation. She felt like a traitor to her gender for not leaning on her female roommates for support as she’d waited on the answer from the magic 8-ball of a stick she’d peed on. She’d sat in the corner of the bathroom and watched every second count down on her phone’s timer. She’d nearly vomited when she read the results and then got the same result for the next two tests she took.
It would have made sense to call her mom right after, or her friends, or her boyfriend (the accomplice in this predicament). Instead, she’d called him. She’d cried. He’d listened. He’d stupidly asked if it was his despite the year plus of time since they’d last had sex. She’d know her decision immediately. The getting there was not as immediate. He’d said yes when she asked for a ride.
4. Chi-Town
In another life, or maybe just a year ago, she wouldn’t have needed this reunion, this road trip. She could have ridden the twenty minutes downtown with a friend and then gone right back home right after. Instead, she was choking down a McChicken as they crossed the Illinois state border and checking for the ninth time that she had her driver’s license and health insurance card with her. It was noon now. She would probably be home a little after 6:00, a reasonable time to get home from “work.” No one would question anything.