Mostly Dead Things

by Kristen Arnett

I put my palm against the wall, remembering the first time we’d kissed in the office. How her whole body had swallowed mine. It felt good. Safe. I’d hated that because it didn’t feel how I expected romance to feel: stressful and kind of blood-soaked, a constant power struggle.

Love was a thing that needed constant care. Our intimacy was an uprooted plant, shriveled and withered.

“Intimacy means giving up parts of yourself to someone, even when that means they can hurt you very badly. But sometimes we let them because pain can feel good too.” She pressed her palm against my cheek. I yawned until my jaw cracked. “I don’t wanna try all the time. I’m just tired.” “That’s okay.” She petted my neck and smoothed back my hair. “It’s hard to talk about the ugly parts. How we can be that terrible and still worthy of love.”