July Myth
In an olive house in Medford I breathe in cheap smoke & flash the mean neighbors to show them how big my boobs are. I tried invisible & fell in love with the murmuring man. He was checking my wiring, the light switches set up weirdly. He borrowed a woman he didn’t know well. Shaving his head in the tub he had me play that song from the talk show, shivering like he had a fever & some kind of secret all bloody I thought it’d died. This morning the schoolbus drops me from the disco, my eyes glitter glued shut. I eat his name for breakfast & look up celestial patterns in the bathroom. My hips hurt. I sanitize my yoga mat with red wine. Mid-meditation I pray to St. Anthony for a 100 dollar bill on the floor. I hotwire a pickup truck & drive to therapy. It breaks down because it’s older than me. It’s near sunset so I leave my body to swim in Mystic Lake. Two wolves circle the dock. I know they are in love because if one attacked me, the other would get involved. The pink sun falls, like glass, into trees. In the dark I become something better. It feels like someone is watching me on TV. We have all been in that position sitting in a circle cheersing & everyone is supposed to look at each other dead in the eyes but someone doesn’t know about that. I try to drown. I wake up in an unfinished basement —pool of my own spit & ambient music wheezing over an intercom like ice picks stabbing my eardrums. I go upstairs to middle-aged strangers —a relief to be in a home that is not empty. The living room couch is the same print as my mother’s, a likely place for arrest. They feed me raw vegetables to reduce the risk of bleeding. My skin looks really good, like leather or plastic. Everyone is horrified. I remember this is a bad place to be. I swipe their lime green tricycle. I cruise to the Irish pub. There is nowhere to park. Like a sports car I am loud in the way people want but no one recognizes me, good because I’m escaping & doing crime. A stringy child sneaks into my booth & tickles me, his face frothy & translucent like a cartoon glass of milk. I braid his hair & ask about his favorite things—horses, soup, flamingos. We watch mildew spread above us in slow motion. He puts chewed gum on his seat to save. I pocket it. I give him the tricycle. I give him the world.
First published in Strangers or Friends, 2025.
 | A guest post by
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I love the bittersweetness of this
“My skin looks really good,
like leather or plastic.
Everyone is horrified.”
Really feels like it encapsulates the general mood of our age. I was gripped till the end. Loved it, in an uncomfortable, restless sort of way.