The Boy

A definite mistake, I know.

But who cares? Maybe I want to be wrong. Maybe I like a boy who treats me like a wet sock and only ever kisses me when he wants to f—

So what?

The way his gaze felt on my back, it was cold and warm at once, and which was which I couldn't tell. He said he liked how his name sounded on my lips, and when I pointed out that he hadn't told me, he smiled and said that even he didn't know his own name.

Well, okay.

His hair was silver grey and down to his shoulders; beautiful, if there was ever a word to describe it. And when I stared for too long, he came closer and, with his fingers, slipped a strand into my mouth. It tasted like cigarettes and coconut and lime. And I thought, my god, never have I ever tasted something so absolutely...

Wrong.

The Fox

Sometimes I think I want to hide you somewhere where no one could ever find you; like a fox burying its prized possession. Then I fear I'd bury you too deep. So deep that even I wouldn't find you. But I would never, never stop looking; even if my nails were to break and fall, I would dig with my teeth, and my nose, and my paws—until everything, everything falls apart. And even then, I wouldn't stop.

And how could I? When you're somewhere, waiting.

Or are you hiding?