“The patient is a 23yo female…"

by EB Messineo

Named EB but born Elizabeth, nine letters tying her to her mother with all the comfort and poor fit of a hand-me-down sweater she adores but must age into. She was grown in a town called Whiffleball, and Christmas Morning, and Gummies in Mom’s Glove Compartment, and That Third Bed in Her Brother’s Room Where She Slept Until 17. She has a best friend whose laugh gives the world reason to turn on its very worst day and who loves her double on days when she cannot love herself. She was born in the summertime, but loves winter days spent in the purple coat her brother gave her years ago — the one with two shells in the left pocket from their favorite beach. She falls in love like sleep in a John Green novel, like the fervor of a Bible study prayer, like Death: slowly, and then all at once. At least she thinks she does, but then again she’s only been in love once, maybe. She used to sit in the grass and smash dandelions into her skin — how nice, she thought, to be golden like the sun. But when she tasted the honey-colored streaks with hopeful tongue, she found them bitter — a taste she would remember the first time she put fingers down her throat and wondered: is this bile, or dandelions, or is there even a difference? She loves the smell of books, and the feeling in her chest when she pulls her knees to it, and the sound of the front door opening, because whether somebody is coming or somebody is going, at least there is somebody. She — Oh, why is she here? Well that’s what I’ve been trying t— What do you mean ‘what is wrong with her,’ I just told y— Fine. Shortness of breath, I guess.”