CHOKED AT THE END OF OUR CHAINS

This friendship isn’t beautiful, but it is a great place to get lost. Reckless, racing down a ravine littered with broken glass and the splintered wood of bridges that refused to burn no matter how much kerosene we invested in. Our bodies snuffed the matches out, never quite committing to resolute ash, or maybe people like us were just incapable of being destroyed. If it was never enough, not for us. We hoped we could just burn on forever until the stars all died and darkness thickened like our breathing did when it was just the two of us in the backseat of a car that felt universes away from the bars and the grit that we’d crawled out of. She is my best friend because her parents were the kind of second generation hippies that thought naming their daughter Blu Skye made for an automatic leap in character. Maybe they were right, because I’ve never met anyone else with that name, or anyone else like her. I love her completely, more than parties or clubs, more than my brothers or sisters, more than all of the books that we share on our shelves. I love her because of the mess she is, the messes she makes. She’s the best and the worst person I’ve ever met. Sometimes I can’t tell if I want to kill her, travel the world with her, or just get drunk in her bed. I love her because she had the same look on her face as I did when that tequila-fueled, circus performer of a friend of ours ate light bulbs without batting an eye in our stolen canoe. I love that she’s willing to beat me senseless with beach debris to get me out of going to work. I love that we gave a piece of taxidermy we rescued from the side of the road an honorary medical degree. I love the fact that we shudder and snicker simultaneously at the mere mention of old lovers. I love that she let me decorate her roof with stolen wildflowers, and drove me to the hospital when I fell off the side. That I’ve found her more than once on the roof of a grocery store or on the tracks of a train, with mascara-covered cheeks and whiskey breath. I love her. Most nights we fall asleep in the car. We crank the seats all the way back and run the battery down to its bolts while we leave the radio on. We come up with the next great plan, the next great foray into conjoined madness. We author children’s books about semi-absorbed twins, and we wonder aloud about the much-needed existence of Serial Killers Anonymous meetings. We fall asleep like that, fingers entwined, choked at the end of our chains. Published in 2020 by Witch Craft Magazine Issue Six. Contributed to this collection by Elle Nash. Performed on Misery Loves Company, August 21st, 2020