Boys with Sharp Teeth

by Jenni Howell

Armed with a fake ID and a half-baked plan born of three A.M. logic and suffocating grief, I pivot and press the button marked INTERCOM.

It’s safer to be angry than sad. Anger is a weapon. Sadness is a tomb.

Lose everything to gain truth. It keeps going around and around in my head.

Mirrors are eyes stapled open. Ever-seeing, never blinking, there is no rest for their sight.

Hours, days, years pass staring at the same stretch of wall, the same shifting shadows as dawn rises and noon bursts and night falls. They see the little ragged seams of reality, where now meets before uneasily. They see the way most mortal eyes slip right past the seams, sifting the blur into shadow—déjà vu—daydream.

“Lives with him and still hungers for his presence. Adorable.”