Illustration by Watson Frank
Content warning for self harm.
The stairs looked dead
Beat. Had Mama’s frame, off white
Washed over and over — I held on
Her rings like rain. I was young then.
I didn’t know where tears came from
Or scars, or bellies — but on the stairs I knew
I saw Papa’s eyes, fireflies trampled on
Too much. I was alive then. I was six, hurled
My limbs like a snowball, I hit my Papa’s face.
My Mama got red in her face. I had my first kiss
Next to the radiator, my preyed pulp
Evidence: the sheep steeped, bleeding,
Fur thawed out on the wolf’s white lips.
It is midnight. I forgot my pills.
I’m next to a man so bright, my soul burns.
I don’t want to move. I pray our words were holy.
You’re mine. You’re mine. Too much. I hurl
My limbs off like rings, slipping through our sweat —
I’m too young for this. I throw on sheep clothing,
Running. Like I was running away from home,
Beat. The stairs look me dead in the eyes.
I can’t outrun my blood. They know
I’m here to live again. They know
I’m starving for winter — Wolf! Wolf!
Stevie File (he/him/his) is a queer writer and performer from York, Pennsylvania. He is currently a first-year student at Columbia College, aspiring to double major in theatre and creative writing. You can follow him on Instagram @stevierfile.