three blind mice

She found herself ordering her days by the different men she chose to pay attention to. On Saturday she twisted herself recklessly, hair loose, in to the plaything Carter wanted her to be, she ate little and drank heavy and left black lace behind for him to stumble upon. Sunday morning she crawled out of his bed and let the interstate toss her home, rolling slabs of pavement hurried beneath her, mittens warming on the dashboard, a rash underneath the ring she wore to declare herself. She knew at her pit he made her heedless, and in turn she would make him hopeless. That afternoon she tied her hair in a knot at the nape of her neck to greet Nick-  they stayed outdoors all day where he listened to her thoroughly and stroked her face, poor thing, he didn’t know who she really was (how could he? Nobody did, not even her). She spoke of herbs and delighted in the snow and spun dripping tales of growth cycles and the waiting game. He promised right then to leave everything he had to follow her and all she had to do was blink up at him, pick the leaves off her cotton dress. When he left the next day he hugged her too tightly and she knew suddenly she would never want it to be real. The beginning of the week brought her lying through her teeth as she sat huddled in a booth with Brett, wrapped her fingers around a beer she never liked the taste of as she told him sweetly about the dream she never had. He wanted to spin her and then hold her so she pushed gently on his chest and played herself fragile, one long braid down her back. 

Told each one of them to wait for her and stepped out in to the unknown where all three of them, against their knowledge, loved her best.