Girls Just Wanna Have
By Rachel M. Beavers
Your bed looks like it’s going to eat you, mouth ravenous and open and red like blood. I kick my shoes off next to your desk, black chunky boots that make a thunking sound when they hit real wood, not the cheap Ikea shit. The zipper of my dress catches on my tights and rips them. Another pair ruined. They’re coming off anyway, so I strip down and stand tall for your careless inspection. You’re just going for the bed, like you want to be swallowed up.
All my friends are talking about cannibalism these days, giggling behind their hands and sharing photos in our group chat of messy fingers and movie stills. Consumption doesn’t grip me like that; my jaw still locks when I go to open it. No matter. You slick my mouth with your spit, quietly hungry, and the hinges loosen. My brain buzzes, eyes closed, images like a slideshow playing faster and faster and faster. You with another girl, you knocking back a shot of tequila at the bar, you pouring Gatorade down my throat when I beg you to make me sticky, the line of saliva connecting us or our souls or whatever. When you kiss me it tastes like consummation.
I told my roommates I was sleeping over at yours, or at someone’s, but I sneak out when your eyes close, carefully peeling off your tee shirt. I don’t really understand why boys buy their tee shirts so small; you like it to cling to your shoulders, I guess. I want it to hide every curve my body has so hatefully given me. The Uber driver looks at me in the backseat the whole way home, my smudgy eyeliner, the torn tights clutched in my hand. I type 911 into my phone and keep my left thumb on the call button all the way until I get to my bed, when I hear his car pull out of our driveway.
In my room, I strip off my clothes and get out my laptop and open Instagram on my phone and Google on my computer. I don’t want to eat you, not like my friends want to eat Timothee Chalamet, but I want to own you so bad it rips a hole in my stomach, and makes my intestines crawl out, stair stepping over my ribs on the way. I scroll through all the pictures you’ve posted with your girlfriend, and I pull up spells on Google. I’m looking for the real ones that work, not the shitty fake ones, but I don’t know the difference, do I? So, I end up with some chanting, with your name written on a piece of paper, with a lit candle. I burn your name over a dinner plate and run my finger through the ashes, thinking about what they might taste like in my mouth. Instead, I wipe my finger on the inside of my thigh, high up where it’s pale and fleshy, where your fingers were an hour ago. I pass out naked on the floor and wake cold with a sore back.
Braver in the morning, I sprinkle the ashes over my scrambled eggs like pepper, eating what’s left of you whole. Do you think of me as I swallow the last bite? Probably not. You don’t call, because you never do, but you accept my Venmo request for Plan B. Another ping comes through, $3 extra for a cherry Coke, my favorite. I look at the empty plate; my stomach is as full as if I’d eaten a whole person.
About the Author
Rachel M. Beavers is a Los Angeles-based writer and insomniac. Her work can be found in The Los Angeles Review, HAD, LandlockedMagazine, and elsewhere.
