Fiery Little Thing

by Avina St. Graves

Blaze woke up this morning, and every morning for the past seven days, looked at my initials on the back of the ring, and slipped it on her thumb even though it’s two sizes too big for her. Blaze woke up, put it on, and walked around wearing my initials.

“Don’t pretend you don’t like it, Blaze. You’re looking at me like you hate me, but you’re riding me like you love me.”

“Fuck, you’re a dirty little whore.” Feminism? Out the window.

I guess I’m a simple-minded girl who wants a strong man; none of his other qualities matter.

I throw my head back to scream his name. Not his. His. Kiervan’s. Checkmate, asshole.

But she chose to put her hand on me. Me. And god it makes me giddy to think she willingly put her hand on me. She chose to slap me.

Blaze can feel as smug as she wants, but she’s walking all around school carrying the marks that came from my hands.

Jesus Christ, those veiny forearms.

Legs? Spread. Back? Arched.

“I’m the klepto here. You know that, right?” “And yet you look so pretty against flames.”