The White Devil
We watch each other in the blue glow of predawn, limbs entwined. We speak with our eyes: “I grow hair on my back now,” I say, “white keratin horns that I pluck when you’re not around. A white picket fence is really a series of spears meant to impale the raised chins of children like ours. Please don’t make me become what I am.” His eyes collect the shell of my body. My words fare the same. “At least your horns are white,” he says. “And in this light, your eyes are almost blue. Let’s dream a while, shall we?”
Photo Credit: Justin Shearer
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