Play Nice

by Rachel Harrison

There’s still glitter on my hands. There will always be glitter on my hands. Glitter is permanent.

This is the magic of family. The sense that you’re not alone in the universe, in your body, because there’s someone else out there who shares your DNA, who’s made up of the same stuff you’re made of.

But I love men. I just don’t trust or respect them.

If we don’t remember something, how can we be sure it never happened?

If I allow myself to attribute every noise, every odd occurrence, every chill in the house to a boogeyman, I will have a boogeyman.

If I were to be cynical, I’d suspect it’s because they can sense there’s something rotten in Denmark and are trying to settle the kingdom and lift spirits with racks of ribs and expensive steaks and a variety of mayonnaise-based salads.

Is there anything good for me to believe in? Or are the demons all that’s left?

There’s something terrible about that time between lightning and thunder. That cruel purgatory of anticipation, waiting for the universe to scream.

Maybe the devil lives somewhere in the words “I know I shouldn’t.” Or maybe God does.

Our demons are ours and ours alone.

And to you, dear beautiful reader. It’s often easier for someone to dismiss us or call us crazy than it is for them to admit that we’re right. Remember that. Trust yourself.