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’d devoured each other in this forest, these boys so ravenous and defiant and tearful, they’d not known how to stop. The way Andrew loved Thomas was terrible and eternal, but he couldn’t remember if he’d ever said that out loud. “Remember you love me.” His words felt so small and sleepy against the forest’s dawn. “All my stories are about you. They will always be about you.”

Andrew lowered his head so his mouth was close to Thomas’s ear. “Wake up. I need you to tell me if we’re real.” Thomas didn’t open his eyes, but his face had gone soft; all that fierce anger and lonesome fear slipped away. “Kiss me,” he said, low and sleepy. “Then you’ll find out.”