The Trash and Lights

I used to think the world was clean lines: black or white, halo or horns, love or nothing at all. You fall in love and poof—magic, glitter, forever. Cute lie. Sometimes love isn’t a fairytale. Sometimes it’s sticky, messy, and deliciously wrong. Sometimes it’s just lust—lipstick-smeared, nails-dug-in, heartbeat-in-your-throat lust. I grew up a good girl. Catholic school skirts, folded hands, guilt like perfume. Which is hilarious, considering my parents were boho, drug-fogged, free-love disasters. I wanted them to be in love. They weren’t. They were just orbiting each other in long, sweaty seasons of desire. I watched the fallout. Affairs like open wounds. Step-parents who were cruel, violent, sharp-toothed. Love, as I learned it, bled. So I promised myself I’d be different. My stories would be romance. Passion. Big feelings. Soft landings,they are—kind of. Because I’m a hopeless romantic with my heart on display… but I’m also shameless. Kinky. Glitter-brained and dark-minded. I want the roses and the blood. I want devotion with teeth. I want love that ruins my mascara and stains the sheets. Black and white was never real. I live in the glossy red in between.