Intent
This is how we’ll die: on the roadway late one night. I’ll be the car that crashes into yours. Not that fleshy thing behind the wheel. I’ll be the car—that block of heavy black. I’ll heave across the highway. I’ll press my tires to the surface. I’ll be on the move in hunt of you. And there you’ll be: at some empty exit. There’s no yielding on these roads. I’ll flash past you, change lanes to cut you off, and spin. How long will we sit glaring? Hot headlights to hot headlights. I want to feel the impact: that solid force. A forest falling. I’ll blow your motor. I’ll crush your hood and send your side view mirrors flying. I’ll keep my eyes open to watch for consequences: your body plunging forward, your body jolting back. Your arm and hand have flown through your driver’s side window. Glass stipples the asphalt. There’s silence—except for my engine running. Mine will not be the first to stop. Through my leaking fuel and shattered windshield there’s still us two. You: stagnant. Pieced out on midnight pavement. Me: hoses hanging and reversing from the scene.
Belong
I have a request: I want to see you naked in the early morning hours. I don’t need to lie beside you. I don’t need a chair to sit. I can watch you through the side window of your bedroom while you wake. Let the sun light your figure; let it replicate your form onto the floor. I’ll outline the shadow of your shape with my fingers, leave you scrawled love notes on the glass. Don’t turn away. Don’t cover your head. Don’t lift yourself from your bed. We’re not finished. You’re mine until the day begins.
I’ve picked you flowers once before. A pool of tulips spilling over your windowsill. I saw your eyes latch onto stems while washing dishes late one night. You paused your hand on the window’s lock. You walked away. You should have claimed them. They would have complimented your bare kitchen, the bowl of beets on your whitewash table. I’ll try again two weeks from now with roses, maybe cherry blossoms.
My years of watching you will not end today. I will not go unfulfilled. Give me something: one loose piece of jewelry, one strand of fallen hair. Leave your old clothes in boxes on your doorstep. I’ll take them for myself. Just give me one—one thing to have. One thing that will connect us.
All the blood in my body wants to be near you. I’ll bang on your walls to get your attention. I’ll force my way in. What did you say last week? I heard your whisper through the crack in your front door. Do not deny me.
If I want you, I will have you. Your nos mean maybe. Your maybes: yes. I don’t believe in fate. I’ll take what I want at my discretion. You’re the one for me, I know. You’re the one. You’re my love, loved, beloved, one.
Dirty Oceans
Forget those babied blues. The eyes were the first to go. A couple cuts like piecing out blueberry pies. I squeezed. I suctioned out two filmy ovals. Secretion as if birthing babies. Long gone features. Our marine memories. I sewed his mouth in a criss-cross pattern that reminded me of stitching from his only jeans. I sliced his ears. I ripped clumps of hair from his scalp as deep of a red as the deep red of a Bing cherry.
Then I took a hammer to his bones. Then I brought a machete to his skin. I heard the sucking of tissue and blood. I served myself some of him. That first slice looked like beef. That second slice looked like pork. I think that third looked like the fat of duck, but I’m not quite sure.
Whenever we were together, he’d tell me where he’d want his body to rest after he died.
“Throw me in the sea,” he’d say. “I love the waters more than anything I know.”
Tell me about it, I’d think.
Of course I disregard his wishes. Of course I leave what’s left of him on his apartment floor. And an exception? Of course: one pair of eyes. I take those marbles the color of the midday sky and dump them down the sewer. I hope they do not float. I curse them. I pray that he can see his once clear world turn deep and dim. I leave two parts of him inside that liquid space—one dirty ocean for two dirty ocean eyes.
Ashley Sgro has always been infatuated with words and writing. As an avid reader and eternal writer, she dedicates her free time to composing poetry and flash fiction. Ashley currently lives in New Jersey. Visit her at ashleysgro.com.