In the Vines

by Shannon Kirk

Those of us destined to dwell in dark thoughts and doubt, in the dust of old books, and the misery of addiction to the topic of philosophy, we need bright, unencumbered souls in our lives. Otherwise we slide with no balance, no foothold into good.

I turned my face and wiped away a tear of happiness. I loved him so much in that single moment, my heart multiplied into a million hearts, each heart a different fold of a heart accordion, which expanded and contracted in my chest.

I question everything but love, which, ironically, is the most intangible, mysterious leap of all. But not really. Love is fairly scientific, and there are undeniable signs, instinct being the biggest tell of all, the one no one can deny.

It never mattered how old I was—when my mother said she loved me, I was a child again, safe and full, and my heart felt strong and warm. Nothing in the world could harm me for the blessed seconds around the bubble of time when my mother said she loved me.

We are animals. Born of sticks and wind, mud and bone. We should never deny instinct, the wise mother of a mad daughter known as reason.

Both of us struck by the dumb luck of falling in love. Which is a joke, of course: love is a curse.

I’d give away all my love for Kent and all my money if it meant these senseless mass shootings would stop.

Despite the miles on my tortured mind, I must remember, we are young.

At six foot five, with still-black hair and ice-blue eyes on ghost-white skin, when he lifts one eye at you and doesn’t speak nor smile, it seems he’s shriveling your soul by gaze alone. Like a modern vampire.

Applying reason to lunacy is a futile insanity.

I had no energy to focus on other people’s flaws, for I obsessed on my own, with my own to doubt.

She’s a relentless, tireless, constantly suspicious, headstrong woman.

But she is no demon. She is a goddess, full of anger.