Zoë Davis

The first time she bled: moths. They poured from the wound: legs, wings, powder puffs. Hundreds, thousands, and not one drop of blood. It was beautiful, the way we froze, shock forming a ring of us. No discomfort poppied her face. She didn’t stem the flow. She simply let herself become a cocoon, a human flower, eyelashes petalling. A brittle hurricane glittered between us. We’d been dating for two months. She was the window I saw my future through.