"Living" by Alissa M. Barr

Alissa M. Barr is a critical care nurse and writer originally from South Central Appalachia. She is currently living and working in Aurora, Colorado. Her work has appeared in Crab Creek Review, Salt Hill Journal, and elsewhere.

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Living

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Once, in anatomy class, we were asked to select one skull
from a shelf of skulls. Each one was a gleaming bleach white,
except the one I chose—discolored with cracked eyeteeth.
Nothing real shines. I held the weight of it in my hands
lighter than I expected it to be. I loved the smell of gasoline.
My grandmother’s kitchen burned by the grease overflowing
from a deep-fryer. Brush alight in the barren fields. The smell
of smoke clung to my hair hours afterward. Once, a boy
with dirt-caked fingernails held a Bic lighter to the base
of my neck. Threatened to burn me there. Is virtue a privilege?
I slapped him. Once, I was obsessed with cleanliness.
I wanted to scrape the world off my skin in thick slices down
to the bone. Now I relish filth. I want to be good less than
I want to be alive. I no longer believe in self-sacrifice.
I don’t envy the lamb. I envy the one sharpening the knife.