Page 45 of Biker Boo
Her name.
Over and over.
Becki Becki Becki Becki.
Like if I say it enough, maybe I’ll forget the way it sounded when she moaned it against my neck and meant somebody else.
I rip the page out with shaking hands and crumple it into a tight little ball.It feels like ripping my own skin off.
I strike a match.
The poem catches fast.
The firelight flickers against the wall, and something inside me goes real still.Realcold.
Across the room, the closet door creaks open just a sliver.I walk to it slowly and pull it wide.
Inside, the box sits like a coffin.
Unmarked.Old.Duct-taped at the corners.
I kneel, heart pounding, and lift the lid.
Masks.
Dozens of them.
Some cracked.Some pristine.Some hand-carved from wood, some bought cheap at roadside gas stations on my way out of Louisville all those years ago.
I keep them like secrets.Like sins.
But only one matters now.
The one I wore when I first kissed her.
The one I wore when I tasted her name off her tongue and felt her legs lock around my hips like she’dalwaysbeen waiting for me.
I lift it carefully, brushing ash off the cheek.
Porcelain white.Cracked down the side.Hollow eyes like me.
I press it to my face.
The world feels quieter behind it.
More honest.
Because without the mask, I’m just a coward who watches her love somebody else.
But with it?
I’m her ghost.
Her Biker Boo.
The monster who makes herfeel.
Tucking the mask away, I pace the shed like a beast too big for its cage.Every time I close my eyes, I see her again, up against that stone wall, breathless, writhing, whisperingLegendlike it’s a spell.
