The Honeys

by Ryan La Sala

Death isn’t the end of a life, but the division of it. When someone dies, their soul scatters into all the things they’ve ever given away. Love. Bruises. Gifts. You struggle to piece together what’s left—even the things that hurt—just to feel haunted.

I know people think being queer is, like, very fabulous and full of witty repartee and all that, but sometimes it’s also crying in the bathroom of an Applebee’s somewhere near Margaretville, New York, while Rihanna’s “S&M” plays on the speakers for the early-bird crowd.

Long ago I had to learn that my body isn’t who I am; who I am is how I feel.

Maybe, in the end, they knew her just as well as I did. Or maybe none of us knew her, and we’re making her up now. A girl in the shape of our guilt.

But what path do I take? Do I integrate, or do I defy?

The monsters worth fearing are the ones that are dangerous enough to hide in daylight.