Only If You're Lucky

by Stacy Willingham

Some words should be ours to own, at-times-vicious yet tender terms of endearment we toss around like glitter that suddenly taste sour in the mouths of men.

So maybe that’s who I am: a chameleon that can take on the appearance of its surroundings. A master of camouflage to stay invisible and safe. I need someone to mold me like putty; give me function and form.

How interesting: that female instinct to duck, to hide, like prey catching sight of glowing eyes in the night. Something inherent in our very genes, our very DNA.

The concept of being mutually good and evil, dark and light, tickling my subconscious like an incessant itch growing stronger, harder to ignore. What a profound notion: that neither of those things needed to cancel out the other, but instead, could simply swirl together until you became your own unique mixture of each.

It is possible to both love her and hate her; to trust and mistrust her. To feel so radically on both sides of the coin. It is possible to want my friend back more than anything and to also want her to stay gone for good.