I Was Supposed to Stay Out When the Bedroom Door Was Closed by Holly Fine

Cigarette burn holes in my cardigan meant Mom kept me close. I counted them in her comforter, seared edges lined up like Orion’s Belt. Ashes into wormholes into news anchors swirling fears of Grand Theft Auto, men walking dogs, and how we are going to expire the first day of the new millennium. I was never tired.  I’d fall into a tapestry on the wall. A Japanese tea garden set against a pure waterfall. I climbed the mountains suffocated by fog, revealing that the bedroom door was never locked. The vertigo heights couldn’t contain the white light inside my chest. I was a leaf curled next to its branch, wondering when the branch would break. When Mom fell asleep, I took the cigarette from her fingers.

Holly Fine is a writer and poet residing in Los Angeles, California. She grew up in Riverside, CA, and attended the University of California, Berkeley, where she studied history and creative writing. She likes to dabble in interactive fiction writing/games writing, screenwriting, and stand-up comedy. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Sad Girl Diaries, The Poeming Pigeon, and The Anacapa Review.  Find her on Twitter or Instagram @holleeze.