ello, jello

She has my jacket. She was wearing it when I presented her with her own knife. Have a taste… Tell me, I said the night before over text. I’ll listen. We sat on my rusty boat jacket on a rock and watched the shadow of the tide roll further out. She started while bathed in the red of a distant lighthouse. Tongue sharp with acrid memories. Go on, I said when she would pause. Don’t stop. Show me how they inserted the blades. I’m curious. I can take this on, I thought. (I’m so naive). While she shared, the moon shifted us into today. I’m stealing this, she whispered cheekily as she swept my coat onto her shoulders. Her wrist pressed against my shoulder blade when I slipped on the rocks. Then. My fingers are frozen stiff, she said on our way back to the car. This is where she dropped the knife. I offered my open sleeves to her without thinking, only feeling. Here’s where I’m warm, I thought. Slide your skin against mine. Do you see that I yearn? Let me give this to you. (And she was cold). We should just stay like this, she grinned as she gripped the tender inner flesh of both my forearms. But then. No. Wait. Hold on. Stop. But I was too late. It was already in my blood. Tangy and sweet. Crisp. Blooming heat sliding up my arm veins. How did she know? How did I not know?? That when I offered, that she would lean in close with an open mouth and bite down. Bite down hard. Or that she would savor it. No one was supposed to know. I’m going to fall if you keep your hands there, I confessed. And she threw her head back and laughed. Then she let go. But I squeezed her shoulders – in my jacket – tight when I was parked in front of her house’s hedge. And I went back to the park later that morning to search for her missing knife.