Your Heart is a Vital Organ

It was one of those days where grey and wet were everything. Surrounded by dripping leaves, it  sounded like the woods were singing. Insects buzzed in harmony. She told me about the deer ticks.  Combed through the boys’ hair. Told us to check our bodies before climbing into bed. I felt covered by  crawling then. Fear of what wasn’t there, but could be. The boys was what we called only them, as if I  wasn’t a boy too.  

Sunlight cut through the afternoon mist. It was like the sky had begun bleeding onto us. One of the  boys said he refused to share a bed with a girl. As if my body was something inappropriate within  itself. Something to stay away from, or to be tempted by. I said I wasn’t a girl. Clouds rolled back in.  Hung low. It was too cold for the humidity to be comfortable. She told me to look at my body, hips and  long hair. You’re a girl! She said it angry. Like I had betrayed her by denying it. Spit the word out like  it belonged on the ground and not in her mouth. Said it loud. My body not what I made it but what she  did. I wanted to get violent. 

I left instead and you came after me. I thought you would’ve known to listen, but when you caught me  on the quiet campsite road, you told me, You have to know that she was right. And with that I was  opened up. Entrails cascading to the asphalt. Heart in your hands. Blood on my tongue, spilling from  my eyes. All I could see was red, your words a kind of quiet violence. Denial of me.  

In the solitude of the tent that night, the stars winked down at me, and everything felt soft again. Heart  clutched in my fist steaming in radiant moonlight, I saw it was too big. I leaned down to it. I could hear it hiss and bubble. I wanted it back, so I swallowed it whole. Widened my mouth and pressed my lips  against my own red flesh. Rubber against my tongue, sinews caught between my teeth. It stretched  open my throat and pulsed through me. Stars poured in and lit me up. With heart at my lips I learned to  spit out what wasn’t mine. My own name and body. With night sky inside of me I learned what the  world looked like dark and finally fell asleep. 

About the Author

River Day Reid is a writer and photographer based in Philadelphia. He is a former UArts student and is now a third year at Arcadia. While at UArts, he won an award for a short story, and some of his work has been published with the ICA. He specializes in writing both poetry and creative non-fiction.