Excerpt from a Fairytale

Girls should have exoskeletons, he told her.

Their ribs could be can openers. My parents never touched each other enough, she said.

He traced her stomach like a coloring book, stopping

And starting to a thousand imaginary traffic lights.

“Happiness is a cliché,” he told her.

“I want to feel in black and white,” she said.

She wanted her heart to print receipts. Their menus rest on the table like slain birds.

She garnished her soul like it was a thing to be consumed.

Every human being is waiting, she said,

At the bus stop of someone else’s

soul. wanting to be taken to Paradise. So stop waiting, he said.

He imagined her soul bobbing away, like a balloon.

She wanted to kill him and press him into the

dictionary for two weeks, until he was only beautiful

In two dimensions. She packaged her memories in garbage bags

and talents leashed like pets on the sidewalk

waiting for him to come home. The principle problem in life, he thought, was this:

No human being could truly love another.