Toxic Karma / by grace mcgrade


When she touched him, she felt her hands run through him, like water. It was impossible to decipher where his feelings began and hers ended. It was impossible to tell if she longed for him or dreaded him. She wanted to torment him and also reward him. It was primal electricity, passionately cruel. It was remembering.

There was a haunt in the energetic familiarity. An intangible, non linear remembering in the feeling of his hands, his essence. They spoke of past lives, about myriads of lifetimes where two were bound. They didn’t speak of what to do when it made her ill. The weight of being bound by invisible rope, snaking into her gut like an infection that only she knew.

It was not enough to know this was not the first time, not enough to wait achingly for the image of him to not be so solid. She itched for the link to disintegrate and no longer torment her like a timeline only she could access. Even the thought of him felt like heavy flesh.

She had walked enough through his universe, leaving lasting, golden footsteps, through stages of innocent and reckless, tragic and erotic. She decided she could only cure herself with the sea.

She was as pale as the dead in the moonlight, and kicked off her clothes quickly, the tips of her red hair cascading brilliantly against her waist like wisps of gold. Her skin as luminescent as the changing of opals. Her eyes were full of candles, so unfixed that no man would ever know their color. She greeted the sea as an old friend, head slightly bent, before charging at it, eyes wild. There, she basqued, naked, in the honey of the moonlight that poured out onto the oceans flesh.

“I release you.”

She screamed into the sea, feeling a blazing wave of holiness clash up against her legs and waist and shoulder blades, until it almost swallowed her. In the infinite expanse of the ocean, the thought of him felt like a distant memory, only existing to serve as an aquatic mass she had once lost herself in.

She felt him turn from a wound, to liquid, to dust- til it fermented and turned to story.

Time consolidated the murmurs in her heart, and when she was ready, she sat down and wrote about them.