They gave me a vampire boyfriend. For story purposes, he was safer than human boys—no danger of pregnancy—wiser, schooled by hundreds of years of mistakes. His manners were the perfect blend of chivalry and feminism. Since he looked 25, I did have to explain to my TV mom that he was “older.” She wasn’t thrilled but she pretended to understand in the disapproving way moms do. My friends acted jealous, bitching about mediocre thrusting in the back of so and so’s car. My boyfriend had evolved beyond high school cares; we laughed late in the lonely night, slayed monsters, and wore matching leather jackets. I fell into the lie that a boyfriend could be supernatural, that there existed something beyond the imperfection of a human man.

The funny thing is, when I needed him the most, he left me. He went evil, which is the problem with vampires, I guess: lifetimes of emotional baggage, centuries of bingeing on patriarchy and abuse. I got him back but the blood had coagulated in the vein, so to speak. He told me it wasn’t me but him, that protecting me meant taking a step back, becoming unavailable, but that he would still love me. Forever. I wonder if I was a status symbol, an idealized version of a humanity he’ll never touch, if my feelings mattered to him or if it was another opportunity to fight, to fuck, to bleed, to tear open a gash and watch it weep.

Maria S. Picone/수영 is a Korean American adoptee who won Cream City Review’s 2020 Summer Poetry Prize. She has been published in Tahoma Literary Review, The Seventh Wave, Fractured Lit and Best Small Fictions 2021. Her work has been supported by Lighthouse Writers, GrubStreet, Kenyon Review, and Tin House. She is a 2022 Palm Beach Poetry Festival Kundiman Fellow and Chestnut Review’s managing editor. Her website is mariaspicone.com, Twitter @mspicone.