Paris

by ISLA THEIS ANDERSON

When you find yourself shattering

one of the two good fists you were given

against a wall, not towards any agenda, but

because your knuckles needed reminding

of where they came from - who do you

think you are, anyway? - then you know

that you will never testify against him.

How old were you?

If this is, indeed, a valid

logic system, it is not one

that I wish to adopt. I don't care

about Paris, his nice apartment,

labrador, wife and two children, two

boys so it doesn't matter, don't ask

me. I wouldn't know what to tell you.

Nine.

He probably has a lot of nice candles and shit.

Grey jowls. A belt. I used to imagine him

out in furs, still blood-wet, lined

with flesh. The Original. Skin

against skin

against skin.

It was August the 4th, 2007, you were wearing

a red tartan skirt, your eyes were puffy

like you had been crying.

Art by Isla Theis Anderson