The Avon Echo

by Avalynn Bullerdick

My head hurts. It has hurt. It will always hurt I think, as I try to forget all that I remember. I try to forget why they’re no longer here. Yet they’re always there. In my heart and in my blood. I still remember the sound of their voice, how it echoed through the hall. I remember how they sounded, choking on their own blood. 

I remember their cologne. Its scent on their clothes, the smell of their skin on the sheets. I still remember the color of their eyes, the curvature of their bones. Their limping steps from a bad knee. The tenderness of their flesh.  

I remember reading Plath with their head in my lap. With my hands massaging the roots of their hair. I remember the way they fell asleep there, holding their own hand. The faint rise and fall of their chest, syncing with mine.  

I remember listening to Angel Olsen as they danced through the kitchen. Skipping and twirling with the melody of her voice. I remember how it felt to hold their blood in my hands. Feeling it fall from my lips.  

I remember our first kiss and the first time we said I love you. The hesitance in their voice, the nervousness of my own. I remember the embrace we had afterwards. There was something desperate in it. Something hungry clawing its way to the surface. 

I still feel them. The feeling of their hands on my skin, their fingers in my hair. I can still feel them under my nails. I remember how they taste. Their muscle in my teeth. I remember how full my mouth was. Of blood that was yours. How badly I loved you. How necessary it was that I had you.