Urban Lore
by Makensi Ceriani
“I’m making a love story,”
she hums gently to herself as she puts needle marks
to her skin. The boy with the too baggy jeans who followed after the strange
girl who promised a ‘regret with no shame’ is rapt, watching the contrast of
her dilating eyes and ever shrinking mouth.
“Are you ready? The best ones have the most terrible endings.”
And it’s no longer pursed lips but a blazing smile with each tooth a word ready to be
strung into an eulogy.
“Shouldn’t this be even a little bit beautiful?”
For he too wants to be a fairy tale or a myth or a memory, and as she holds the syringe
like a promise or a kiss, she says softly,
“You are beautiful. Your blood matches mine in vibrancy and our bodies will be stories
no one will forget. We will be all the more beautiful in the retelling when they weep for
us.”
Then, as if finally realizing what both were trying to do, their lips meet with urgency, or
it might just be the quickness of the needle embracing the vein.
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