Blackthorn

by J.T. Geissinger

No greater fool exists than a teenage girl ensnared in the trap of first love.

It’s the Blackthorn way and has been for as long as anyone can remember: men are only tools, and love is only for fools.

He’s the one who first taught me that the most beautiful things in nature are those that will kill you the fastest.

“You don’t hate me, Bugs.” “If you want to keep your kneecaps in working order, don’t ever call me that again.” “I don’t hate you, either. Not even a little bit. Not even a particle.” “Stop talking and go.” “Did you think about me over the last dozen years?” “Sure, lots of times. They all involved violence.”

“Oh, those eyes. Those lovely, spellcasting eyes. How they’ve haunted me. If only you knew the power they’ve always held over me. Maybe then you wouldn’t be so cruel, little witch.”

Some cultures believe the butterfly represents the soul’s journey toward eternal life.” I stare at the beautiful insect for a moment before murmuring absently, “They were once thought to be the spirit of a witch in shape-shifted form.”

“Everything has meaning. The universe doesn’t deal in coincidence.”

Love isn’t blind like they say. It’s total insanity.

When she’s made to feel worthless by

the man who holds her heart, a woman either crumbles and never recovers or grows a callus over the pain to survive.

We’re Blackthorns. We’re weird, we’re wild, and we don’t care what you think.

“Everything. My whole life. This whole town. The entire fucking world if you asked me to. If you said you were mine and meant it, I’d light a match under anything that would keep us apart, then plant our fucking flag in the ashes.”

“It’s you. It’s always been you. Anyone else could only ever be a placeholder. How do you not fucking know that?” My heart singing at his words, I say, “Probably because you’ve been so busy being awful to me.” “Forgive me.” “Say please.” “Please.”

“Mea es.”

You are mine

“Mea stella obscura,”

My dark star