Blake

I pinch myself to check yet again whether I’m dreaming, but a glance in the mirror is all the confirmation I need. This reflection is one I’ve never seen at the cabin before. The boy who would bake blueberry muffins with his mother and rake leaves with his father has grown taller, his face harsher, the angles of his body sharper. How had I ever been so delicate?

I hate that the cardinals in my bedroom are as red as bloodstains. I hate that there are skinning knives in a drawer under the silver ones. I hate that there’s a stag mounted above the fireplace and that its pelt is the same color as my father’s graying hair. I hate that it’s the place where my family tried to build me into what they wanted because it’s also the same one where I broke.