Don't Let the Forest In

by C.G. Drews

It hadn’t hurt, the day he had cut out his own heart.

Andrew had written about it later in spidery lines from a sharp pen—a story about a boy who took a knife to his chest and carved himself open, showing ribs like mossy tree roots, his heart a bruised and wretched thing beneath. No one would want a heart like his. But he’d still cut it out and given it away.

They’re just meant to hurt. Like a paper cut—a tiny sting that meant nothing more than I’m alive I’m alive I’m alive.

Lean into your accent and you’ll have any girl by the end of high school. Andrew decided to speak as little as possible for the rest of forever.

Andrew hated the way his brain did this. Destroyed beautiful things. It was like he couldn’t just hold a flower; he had to crush the petals in his fist until his hand was stained with murdered color.

Andrew thought about curling up beside him and seeing if their bodies fit together like they’d been carved from the same oak.