i wore my early days warm as bearskin,

spinning out and into the sea. i told her that i would
never fall in love and she said just you wait, sweetheart,
and guess what? i entered every room through
the crack below the door, i licked clean plates to mark
them mine, soft as i could, hated the sound of their crash
on the linoleum. i spent evenings cheek
against carpet, heart ribs-trapped and longing for
the floorboards. she watched me name the little
beasts i asked for – a pair of guppies with wide
eyes like myself, and a warm, palm-sized hamster sharp
with teeth. i didn’t want to be touched, either.
i curled against the car window angry little
thing, all soft heat and dream-creature trailing.
i wanted to be as small as a ribbon, be cold blooded
and without pain, shed this skin as transparent
scales and be soft and pink and new. girlhood held
me like lockjaw, like bear trap. she asked me what i wanted from her, and
i screamed in her face, my red maw studded with canines.
i was a devourer, i was a bitch, i was a creature without substance.
with rabbit heads on each shoulder, i kissed every polyester
abstraction goodnight. when i named myself artist everyone was
relieved; at least i would suffer for something.
she asked if i was sorry for making this all a mess and
i could not say it. i put the bitter pill between my baby teeth,
and bit down.

Colette Reed is a queer artist, writer, tattoo enthusiast, and punk from California. In her work, she is interested in representing memory, anger, and loneliness, and exploring the subtle ways you can depict interior worlds. She’s an editor of Chinquapin Literary Magazine, and her work has been showcased in the Sawdust Festival, Festival of the Arts, and The New Wave Literary Magazine. You can find her on instagram at @snapdragon_knight