After R.L. Wheeler
On Saturday nights, my neighbors []. It floods my bathroom sink through the ventilation that
connects our apartments, curling in tendrils. The room stinks with []—that is, it smells like loss.
They’re violating the building’s policy: don’t [] on weekends, the children are sleeping.
But tonight the stars have crept into their eyes and distorted their vision, and they’ve lost
the ability to read fine-print regulations. I’m not surprised they’ve succumbed to the allure of [].
Winning all the time is exhausting; sometimes you need to set yourself up for failure. [ ]’s a losing
game, but with the room coated in the angry pant of [], it feels like winning the lottery. Their love
for the taste of yellow light and plastic utensils creeps underneath the closed bathroom door. Losers,
I think, as [] crawls over my pillowcase and steps carefully down the hallway, turning on the lights
as it goes, searing my pupils with ugly yellow love. I sleep on the couch, hiding from []. My loss,
I figure, when I fall off of the yellow cushions in the middle of the night and hit the floor hard. When I
brush my teeth the next morning, I end up swallowing lingering []. It is like drowning in losses.
It’s easy to mistrust people who try to overflow the bathtub every Saturday night. On Sunday morning my
mom and I air out my room with orange rinds. [] hovers in my gums, my throat raw as if I’ll lose
my voice. Between spasms of hate, [] teaches me guilt, in words.On Saturdays, it says, your
neighbors realize they don’t want to lose each other. They speak through []—through loss.
They don’t know themselves without []. [] suffocates because it’s love.
Kyla Guimaraes is a student and writer from New York City. Her work is published in or forthcoming for The Penn Review, Aster Lit, and Eunoia Review, among others, and has been recognized by the Alliance for Artists & Writers and the Young Poets Network. Kyla edits poetry for Eucalyptus Lit, and, in addition to writing, likes playing basketball and watching the sunrise.