All I can really remember is that she asked me “How is it that they can let you go? Who would ever want to let you go?”

We both said a lot of things we meant that night, and what’s funny is how alcohol manages to sharpen verbal knives, but thicken the skin, as well. We could slash at one another for hours, and simply end up in fits of laughter.

Bummed cigarettes and made friends with girls who played cards while sitting on cold concrete. Ex dope fiend.

I don’t think her mother actually named her Minnow. I remember being her age.

I can still taste blood in my mouth.

It’s the only thing that really holds fear for me, still. Not death, not the dark, not even clowns or creepy little children. Actual heart-wrenching, blood-curdling fear. Beyond that. There isn’t a primal, basic fear reaction to love; I think my body made it up. It created it and calls it child.

This fear of mine confuses her; it wounds me, because I insist it’s not there; I can walk by the lack of it, blind and blithe and willfully disbelieving.

I have no fear.

I just… don’t love.

About Catastrophe Jones

Wretched word-goblin with enough interests that they're not particularly awesome at any of them. Terrible self-esteem and yet prone to hilarious bouts of hubris. Full of the worst flavors of self-awareness. Owns far too many craft supplies. Will sing to you at the slightest provocation.
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