Lucinda

I ache harder than the dead. I'm fascinated by all the tiny bones beneath my fingers. In the fish, the cats. My wrists. My breasts burn at boys bathed in green light and my lips go salty at the edges. There are ghosts in the attic, ghosts in the bathroom, even the faded brown truck is haunted and beer scented. I'm sure it's female. Her body floating in the river, the bathtub. Floating wide eyed above mine. Her sin like mine, like every girl's, even daring to want. Like mine, you can hear her yearning, its scented fever, all night long.