Nightcrawling

by Leila Mottley

The idea of drowning doesn’t bother me, though, since we’re made of water anyway. It’s kind of like your body overflowing with itself.

The eyes are a ravenous wanting now, like the night has swallowed them and spit out only desire.

I don’t think you can feel more trapped than in the center of food you’re not allowed to eat, waiting to go home, and not knowing if anyone will remember your existence.

There’s something about the way they hold them together, something about the way they’re cracked that makes me think these people have mastered how to dry out a phrase, give some bad news with a straight line carved into their mouths.

The woman is clearly in charge here, walks stomach first, everything secondary to the pit of her, target in her belly button.

I’m starting to think there is no such thing as a good cop, that the uniform erases the person inside it.

The house is clearly air-conditioned, walls lined in paintings I’m sure no one knows the names of, and I’m guessing the price tag’s more important than the art because I could paint something better in the dark and nobody’s hanging it in their house.

My forehead prickles in spirals and the grass fades to a stale green.