By Michelle Hoeckel-Neal
When you told me I was like a set of an old west movie, I thought you were saying you loved me. You injected those words into me like venom—so bitter and vile. But old west films had always been your favorite stories, so I leaned into the bite, hoping that as your words entered my veins, they might become clear—my blood cells meticulously reordering them, diluting them into something I could recognize.
But later that week, you walked straight through me, and the venom that had been souring in my joints finally took hold of my mind. Like a set of an old west movie: I am plywood and cheap paint and plastic windows. Like a set of an old west movie: I am the front-facing façade. Like a set of an old west movie. You peaked behind my edges and there was nothing. The desert stretched across the earth like a bad joke.
You packed a bag and entered the desert. I waited for you to look back, to watch this old west movie set shrink, collapse, crumble in the distance. But you walked without pausing. I think, as you walked, you stared at the sun for too long, I think your irises ignited and shriveled. I think you waded blindly into the golden ocean. I think you’re still wading even now.
As for me, well, what’s an old west movie set to do without her rough-and-tumble outlaw? A few cowboys, plenty of bar maids, and the steady glow of moonshine couldn’t make up for the way your fingers on my collar bone would send shockwaves across my whole body.
Sometimes, when I taste the saltwater and smell the mollusks at low tide, I am transported back into your arms. The oyster’s brine tastes like the inside of you. Once you said to me, “I want to drown in this moment.” And I thought it odd—didn’t you?—that you believed you could drown in anything so shallow.
