I Want to Believe by D McDonald
Beneath red sheets we drink Jim Beam, watch the X-Files, as you describe the mom who once left you crying in the garage after throwing away your rodent skull collection— two summers, tiny fingers prying open owl pellets for treasure more precious than any plastic— she called you sinful, a terror, freak of nature. You repeat this with eyes clear as lost ice-- twelve years later you still believe it. We take more shots, and fuck away the cold to the smooth purr of Agent Scully’ s voice— she too is searching, and none of us know what truth is out there.
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Permeable by Aliza Chavez