[459 words]
Did you know I killed a dragon once?
A bully made of scales and fire
who biked everywhere and refused
to go to Starbucks. A hipster beard for fangs.
My girlfriends hated him,
said “You can do better.”
But the sex. Oh,
he was a beast, hot and huge.
His yellow eyes on mine,
glowing embers in the dark, smoky
whispers in my ear. All of him
rippling with muscle as he trapped my wrists
in his hands and pressed
them tight
against the pillows.
His skin feverish hot, burning
where we touched. But still,
his blood ran cold underneath.
We fought about where to get breakfast
and why he never wanted to share
feelings or dessert.
We fought about my hair.
How he wanted it loose and silky,
tumble-out-of-a-window-long.
Leave a message, I told him. Rapunzel’s
not here. Nobody kissed
me, I just woke up one morning
and looked around at the dirty sheets,
dishes in the sink, piles
of treasure turned to junk, the spell broken.
My friends said, “You go girl!” Their cheers
like tin-can armor to protect me.
I didn’t – couldn’t—look
when I did it. It was spikes and flame, kill
or be killed. I pouted, cried, faked
left, went right. My words were swords.
I said, “Your jeans are dumb.” I said,
“Your sister is trashy.” No mercy.
He came at me hard, told me beneath
my baubles I was nothing, ordinary
as a peasant, “B+ at best.”
I took a stab. “You’re not that good
of a writer,” I said, finding
his soft spot at last, pink and tender
as a baby. He teetered and tottered
and fell. He begged
for another chance, promised
to show up on time, ask about my day
drink less at parties
but I was resolute.
Now he lives with his yoga teacher in Silver Lake.
My friends’ celebrations ended long ago.
People are irritating.
It’s enough to keep me locked
in my cave. Screw the guests
who show up unannounced, who barge in
hungry for blood. No
wonder the dragon was pissed all the time.
He was a jerk.
And the world needs a jerk-
that’s me.
I started dating Steve and Stefan and Esteban.
They do what I say. They always listen
when I complain about tiny
lumps in the mattress,
a lost shoe, the stupid
birds that sing at sunrise. I don’t care
about Steve or Stefan or Esteban or
birds or shoes. I want claws.
Red ones. I want to look at my reflection
in a puddle of dark magic, deep in the woods.
My eyes yellow as the moon. Pupils long
and black as fear. My teeth
sharp as my tongue.
My breath hot on your neck
when I come.
Amy Forstadt‘s poetry and fiction have appeared in Green Briar Review, Heavy Feather Review, Black Coffee Review, Your Impossible Voice, and Entropy among others. Additional writing credits include Disney Online Originals, Nickelodeon, The Hub, and Animal Planet. She lives in Los Angeles with her husband, son, and one-and-a-half cats.
