my stream of consciousness fails the bechdel test.

by Molly Fisher



he smells fresh, like warm linens strung up on a
clothesline on a sunday afternoon. 
my crucifixion. the outer part of my thigh 
sins for the leg that does not move away when 
accidentally pressed against mine on the subway. aretha’s 
natural woman heat. bed-spring bouncing 
heartbeat. patchwork chambers sewn and
re-stitched to make more room for whatever that
feeling is that sits between like and love. tip 
of my tongue, dangerous l-word. lovely. lovely.
love. he speaks, and he is the same
as i am inside. this is almost unbearable. dripping 
down my throat like a leaky faucet, mind turning to 
molasses. he doesn’t make me nervous; he makes me 
feel. a fuzzy pink robe stuck beside a worn 
suede jacket in a dimly lit hallway. twenty years old 
and placing the power of lover’s fate 
into the hands of a plastic ball that tells me 
“outlook not so good” and i shake again. 


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