Dear Wigleaf,

It's been weeks now since the last time you were here when you took the bottle that you'd been drinking from and smashed it against the wall. You picked up a piece of glass and held it to my neck—threatening. Later that night while you were asleep I held it against yours—tempting. You woke, eyes wild with fury and surprise, and waited for your life to end and for me to be the one to end it. I couldn't.

I was in love with you once. There was a time when the craving for you was so deliciously sweet that it was all I could do to keep from falling. I wanted to sweep my hands over your chest, to have my fingers grace the shiny metal of your belt buckle, to feel the heat of your body warming mine.

That is what I want to remember. Not this—the cracked glass cutting the bottom of my feet as I step out of bed, the broken furniture or the flickering television now on its side on the floor. Not your unwanted clothes that reek of whiskey and sweat and blood. No, not this memory, and certainly not the way the world feels now without you. Because, despite myself, I am in love with you still.


LaTanya McQueen

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Read LM's story, "Tender Deaths."

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