I.
It should be hard to feel lonely on a night full as this, where the moon sits low on the water—bright and insistent. But melancholy and self-pity are favorite friends and so, I manage it. Preoccupied with the salt spray, the crash of black waves, the way the change gathers at the back of my throat first, and the way I resist it, it’s a while before I realize this shoreline is not deserted, as I’d believed. That one of the rocks jutting out from the water is something else entirely. The sea may hide your scent but when I focus there’s no mistaking the quickening tryptic of your heartbeats. A flicker of emotion crosses your face that I recognize in myself. When I smile, you smile back.
It starts with shells: pearlescent insides and curling spires. Abalone; nacre; midnight swirls and edges fine enough to draw blood. I find them in beach-piles grown a little larger each evening. I find them in patterns I imagine are stories where perhaps I am not a monster; or maybe I am, but just a little bit braver. And then I find them in trails that take me days to summon the courage to follow. But oh when I do…
We dance. We dance. We dance.
And I imagine that you believe there is more to us than this.
And that I am a predator just like you.
There are books I can’t read anymore. I run my fingers along bindings, the way I’d trace the gills beneath your jaw. You’d bring my hand away, plant a kiss upon each fingertip before turning the page, and pretend not to notice that I work scales loose while you sleep, from behind an ear, the crook of your elbow. Something of you to keep because I knew you already planned to leave, and I was wanting something to remember you by besides the piercing of needle teeth, my own blood in my mouth and your regret-filled desire to consume me.
II.
I think about you still. You may not believe it, but it’s true. When the night is brightest, your phantom howl ripples across my limbs, your purr burns behind my ribs (it is a purr, no matter what you insist), and I remember: my, what wide eyes you had, when you believed I was what you wanted. Nights such as this, I ebb and bob just below the waterline, letting seaweed and starlight hold me, wondering if you pace and pad just shoreside, imagining that I could surface and watch you one last time. Thinking how I might ache differently, had I let you pass me by. Nights such as this, I remember our single hunt together, laying siege to the brackish areas where sea meets cypress forest. Blood -matted fur, -streaked scales, -crusted claws and good goddamn…
We fuck. We fuck. We fuck.
And I imagine you love the danger like I do.
We can’t both come out of this whole.
It ends the way it began: with shiny, precious things. Tears shed in silence. Each pearl left on your pillow you’re convinced is a parting gift. In the pre-dawn quiet, I feign sleep while you whisper will you leave me, or leave me not. And the truth is: that is not the right question. The truth is: I’ve never known how to hold tender creatures; these hands were made for rending. But you make playing human seem so easy; for a while I believe I can, too.
I’ve got the gift of good timing (I hear your loneliness from a league away) and the curse of always wanting what isn’t meant for me (I recognize longing when I see it). Can you blame me for thinking I know a way or two to be lonely together? When you realize I’m watching, you smile. A wicked, secret thing. I can smell the thrill on you from here. (Can you come closer still?) We may both be monsters, baby, but I bet my teeth are bigger than yours. (For you though? Perhaps I can be tame for just a little).
© 2023 K.S. Walker
