KENDRA GRANT MALONE
Sheets of mist have been blowing on my balcony all night. I've been smoking every ten minutes to feel the droplets tickle my face. It is not rain, it is a blanket of fog on New York tonight that is surely poisonous.
I sent him a text message that was a photograph of my barely dressed body lit by the computer screen that was accompanied by the words 'i hate myself'.
I laid there in the dark listening to music and drinking sparkling red wine. I just stared at the flat white ceiling trying to estimate how far it was from my face and what would happen to my face if by some miracle it caved in on me.
He texted me back 'I like you i mean it'. And then again shortly thereafter, 'You should start writing about it'.
I didn't feel any different.
A kitten keeps wandering in and out of my room and stealing my socks.
I am beginning to feel a little different.
I feel tender tonight.
I want him to destroy my face. I want to spoon feed him soup when he is sick. I want to go dancing with him and the both of us pretend that we are not there together. I want to ignore him and him ignore me and then later it will be okay. I want to look through a telescope with him and hold hands all the while, feeling his breath on my neck. I want to be fucked savagely by a pack of wolves. And when I say a pack of wolves, I mean him.
I want to go sit outside in the descending fog.
I am going now to sit outside in the descending fog and feel it tickle my face.
