He’s always been terrified he’s a burden. At least this way he’s free from the panic that squeezes his intestines and roars inside his ears every time he thinks about his life slipping pointlessly into oblivion while he drains food and heat and time from others, from the planet itself, sucking and swallowing like a tick. Not because he loves being alone- he doesn’t- or because being a lighthouse keeper offers him any particular satisfaction- it doesn’t- but because at least this way he’s free from the panic that blocks his throat and kicks him in the heart every time he has to do something social. He took the job to get away from people and avoid feeling useless. And when they put me in the sensory deprivation tank later she was all around me, her soft skin everywhere, overripe peach of her, salty blood stink, breath in my ears and over my belly, hands on my face, hands on my hips, hands holding on and on. I could feel the ghosts of her teeth and tongue all afternoon. I could feel something like her soul or her essence sparkling in my veins. All I know is when she kissed me it stayed under my skin longer than the electricity from the fence. Maybe they thought it helped: helped us get better, or helped us be more of what they wanted, or both. Maybe the doctors felt like it was harmless to let us blow off steam this way. Maybe we were being as slick and sly as we thought we were. I dare you to kiss me with my mouth covered in your fluids. Really roll it around in the juices there. I dare you to leave the door open and put your tongue in my body. Leave the door open it’s not a dare if there’s no risk someone else might see. Put your arms out at either side like you’re pretending to be an albatross. Until your skin is a mess of little prickly aches. I dare you to take off all your clothes and stand in front of the air conditioning unit in your room. Fall back arched like a bridge from the shock, fingers jittering, pelvis thrusting into heavy air. Have to swallow each petal and let it stick to your guts. You have to chew it, have to really roll your tongue in pollen. Between pissing into cups and taking pills. Between the gel and the electrode discs on our chests and backs and foreheads. So we dared what we thought we could get away with. When they’d say we weren’t sick, or weren’t sick anymore, or weren’t interesting test subjects. We’d exhausted the books and the meager selection of old DVDs. We had a dare club, like the kind you’d form in childhood. CW: self-harm, pregnancy/birth, body horror Clinic

Corrupted Vessels by Briar Ripley Page