Our lake house rests in the tucked-away town of Lake Chelan, Washington: I lit a match, setting her name on fire like a narcissist resting on the hillside of a slippery slope as ashes hover above her smokey eyes, tears stream her cheeks.
A penny for her thoughts and two cents for whispers of little nothings escape her lips without a detected lie, pushing karma through her cherry red lips. She wrote her name on my heart: a tattoo. It’s permanent.
Fights and shouts bring names to shame. Sticks and stones flow from her tongue to my name, cutting me to shreds of an erased persona. Thunderous shouts tossed in Lake Chelan illuminated her slumped shoulders and hands folded as if to pray as if to beg brought me back to faith. The faith within my bones that everything would clasp our bodies together, tangled by our names in bedsheets.