You always said I loved you too much, and I guess you were right. You said it again that day by the pond, when you told me how you weren’t responsible for my happiness and your eyes matched the water, sun-speckled and murky. That day when I loved you so hard that you exploded into a million pieces.
You went mostly into the water. I jumped in after your scattered chunks but the fish gobbled you up; they consumed you so quickly, I guess they loved you too. You always were so likeable.
I fished until it was dark, that day, that night, until I was sure I had caught every last fish. I carried you home, nestled inside their stomachs.
They still fill my entire freezer, the fish. But if ever I feel sad, and sometimes I do, I fry one up. They make me feel better, I just love them so much.
Megan Crosbie is a queer writer and occasional performer from Scotland. She particularly loves crafting fractured fairy-tales and often writes in the boundary between flash-fiction and poetry. Her writing has been published around the world, both online and in print, in journals such as Firewords Quarterly, Dark Lane Books, and Litro. When not writing, she enjoys travelling, drag shows, and too much wine.