I could make girls laugh. Make their bodies shake with delight, fold with ease. It was a gift, a magical amulet that I regret trading. I am a ruse without it. I traded too soon.
Before, I fucked carefree. I ache for that time now, would settle for a glimpse of it.
These sirens that haunt me are fantastically plain. In my dreams I still wander with them, to them. To places the reputable do not enter, do not seek. Filth. Places bad for your health and worse for your conscience. Places you refute knowledge of. Filth. My legs search endlessly for these places but my heart doesn’t find the neighborhood. Anymore.
The crammed pews stare. My beloved beside me, waits. The priest prompts me again.
About the author:
Sabrina is Canadian but doesn’t live in an igloo or drive a dogsled team. If someone would create a layaway plan though, she might reconsider. Her previous work has appeared or is forthcoming in: Skive Magazine, Tuesday Shorts, Canadian Stories and decomP.
