A journal of narrative writing.

The water rusted in the tap, and I rusted where you touched me, sluicing at the bottom of your palms. You called me green because of the times I couldn't speak, when we woke with the dark sitting over us and leafed through our clothes. The moonlight was querulous and too dry and we thought, winter, learning the secret corners of the word, growing used to the feeling of oxidation. I waited to bleed, and when it came I throbbed, my iron middle pressing against tides. I wore red beads to breakfast, coming in with the fog, clacking. We found spirits in the butter, eating salt out of the day. There were things we learned in our sleep, crumbling together, sharing dreams. I called my hair auburn, and you looked at it and said, You will never be a ghost with hair like that. You will never come looking for me.