the first time you see her
after it happens, it’s just a flash,
and you think about it
for weeks after.
those heavy eyes, that
cascade of curls,
that bowstring spine.
the second time is when you know
it’s really happening, she’s really
standing there (in your
imagination, at least)
and she asks you “am i
going to regret this?”
like you’re both sixteen again
and it isn’t going to break
your damn heart all over again,
and you shut your
eyes but you can’t shut out the feeling,
and you don’t sleep a wink
that night or the next.
the third time, you almost
get your stupid ass killed, at least
that’s what stiles yells at you
when it’s all over.
there’s a fight and there’s blood
and there’s adrenaline and
there’s a monster of the week
(an old joke, lydia’s, but it isn’t
funny anymore), and then
all of a sudden, there’s
the dress she was wearing
when you kissed her the last time,
and the glove she was wearing
when you killed her the last time,
and over and over the thud of her hand,
and it takes you hours
to regain your breath.
your mother shakes you awake
screaming (you and her, both)
and she has sad, sad eyes.
the fourth time, she asks
“why did you let them
do it, scott? why didn’t you
save me?” and it echoes in your ears
and you can’t sleep and
you can’t eat and
you don’t want to see her
anymore but
she is everywhere
and you can’t run from that.
the fifth time, the sixth time,
the seventh time, the eighth.
you lose track, and you miss her
with an ache like a bone bruise,
and you stop trying to run,
and you stop trying to sleep,
and you want to crush your own heart
in the heat of your fist and pretend
like you never loved her at all.
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2087
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