Cajun Mutt Press Featured Writer 05/04/22


I thought I saw a man across the room
who might lift me up and out
on the flutter of a butterfly’s wings
through elation in the night

His eyes darted, then stopped
darted then stopped on mine
so I allowed the corners of my mouth
to lift

But his teeth were long
and when he smiled back
the gums above them glistened
more red than pink

My foot twitched as he walked over
invisible fingers pushed
my temples
pulse thundered between

I felt his hands
displacing the air
on their way to me
sending a wave of heat

I could not breathe
the night felt too close
lightening flashed
with the flash-backs

Hands caressing my neck
encircling it, pressing
with such potential
for ill intent

I could feel, even see
the muscles, veins
of my own neck
slowly succumbing to his control

He reached me
touched my shoulder
and I flinched back
breaking the contact

Looking down, I explained:
“It’s not you” then walked away
through chill air
on cement overwhelmingly, necessarily solid

It’s not you.
It’s not me.
It was him.
As it always will be.

©2022 Chris Biles All rights reserved.

Chris Biles

Chris Biles is a queer writer/artist currently living and working in Washington D.C. She enjoys playing with the light and the dark, and losing herself in music, anything outside, and some words here and there. Published by Bourgeon Online, Exeter Publishing, Evening Street Review, Haunted Waters Press, Yellow Arrow Publishing, Signatures Magazine, FleasOnTheDog, and others.
You can find her at / Instagram:

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