While boarding a bus departing the mall, I suddenly burst into tears. I quickly fought them and found composure. These years, like dense fog, obstruct light. While in outer dark, it’s easy to lose where you are. Each fire, however brief, seeks agency.
There’s innate peril in being alive. My survival has relied on the kindness of strangers. When I was five, we lived on Seven Mile; an area of widespread danger. My older brother and his friends would break into cars. My parents were too busy getting high to intervene. Sometime later, I met his friends at an arcade; they poured many gifts into my hands.
I began with a suit of armor, but as I expanded, each piece was abandoned. Photos capture birthdays and graduations. The disposable camera flashes shift my axis. My teenage years are a document of providence. I hadn’t yet realized the gravity of being neglected.
I cried a second time, years later, in my brother’s car. He pulled into a parking lot, but this time, I couldn’t stop. The sensation was retroactive; like the pain was from a remote source. He said: I love you, no matter what. I’d just begun drinking this cup and didn’t know how to respond. My façade was ruined, but I had to move on.
J.L. Moultrie’s work has appeared in Hobart Pulp, ExPat Press, Apocalypse Confidential, Bruiser Magazine, Do Not Submit, and Bizarre Publishing House. He is the author of the poetry collection Cairn.