Boys with Sharp Teeth

by Jenni Howell

Grief is a rip current hiding in smooth waters, always just one step away from dragging me out to drown.

My chest feels painfully tight. It turns out hope aches.

He’s a boy whose lines are made for art. That’s all. Nothing more.

It’s a boy, not a ghost; it’s a boy, not a monster, I tell myself. But I know boys, and now I know monsters, and there isn’t that much difference between them.