I dug into the bedside drawer and pulled out my final picture of you, preserved like a priceless archive. There were no vengeful tears or bends in the thick, glossy film. As I glided my hand across the silky veneer, I could still feel the brisk January air fossilized in the frame. The cotton candy skies enveloped your tall frame and the distant forest into midnight blue silhouettes. Upon the horizon, the waves of the lake stood frozen in soft, periwinkle ripples, caressing your form forevermore.

I rummaged deeper through the drawer, my hand burrowing beneath a pile of mementos and letters until my fingers caught the rim of the ring. I still giggle thinking back to your poor detective skills, how I played along like a mother with her child as you measured my finger with a piece of yarn. The thin band of plated gold and dainty diamonds still shone as fresh as the day you revealed the token to me.

I lifted the ring to feel the cold metal cut against my chapped lips. I could never wear it on my left hand again. In fact, it would be more fitting — perhaps more dignifying — to chop off my left hand than to wear another ring ever again. Instead, I slipped the gold band onto a slender chain and clasped the necklace around my throat, a vow I never conceded.

I stepped outside again into the cheerful summer day, adorned now with a new charm necklace. The birds never relinquished their praises, still filling the forest's silence. I reached once more for the bunch of flowers resting on the table. They were beginning to look weak and thirsty, unlike when I first picked them that morning. I worked quickly, yet delicately, weaving their mushy stems together into a crown. When the tangled stems fit together as one around my head, I slid it on like a fragrant halo. I felt like Mother Earth herself for a moment. But it wasn't enough.

How dare they speak of this so carelessly? How dare they treat the heart so recklessly? The word itself feels like ripping away a layer of blistered skin. It doesn't deserve tangibility. And yet, my heart is still open, sliced and burning from the salt poured into it.

Let go, they say, let it go. But in their utterances, I only hear, let it happen, just let it happen. That's what you would tell me in our most loving moments, when it was mere skin-on-skin in this teeth-on-teeth world.

Just let it happen.

I began walking into the mouth of the forest. I walked and I walked, far enough to ensure nobody would find me. Yet if they do, they will find a ring around my neck and the ripples of a lake clenched between my blue fingers. And as my feet began to drag through the soft earth, aching with exhaustion, I began to wonder if the bees would drink up the nectar from my halo once I planted myself in the dirt.

Between the suffocating walls of endless foliage and trees, I imagined you were next to me, as if it were nothing more than a leisurely stroll. I would have reached over to you, to say: If you were a strong man, brave enough to bear the burden of mercy, you would know that peace is simple and cruelty is demanding. If you were a strong man, brave enough to survive the burden of bitterness, your heart would be open, too. Then you would be atoned.

Birdsongs clashed in unison from the canopies overhead as I fell to the forest floor, my shaking body finally cradled and held. I couldn't tell whether the aria was pleasant or utter chaos. Amidst the fervor, I gathered but one thing: My soul was yours for the taking. It still is.

The third man said, "It seems like you should at least be able to tell why it's bubbling."

The clown shrugged. "I don't make the rules."

The third man said, "Will it do anything else?"

The clown shook his finger at the three men. "You have to wait for the punchline."

The first man said, "I'm going to call security," but he didn't actually move.

The second man asked, "Is this going to set off the sprinklers?"

The clown smiled and shrugged. The third man said, "I don't like this joke. I think it's going to make us sick."

The clown said, "Your face is going to make me sick," and it started laughing. The goo began to smell. Like a landfill on a hot, humid day.

"Oh God," the first man said. "This is just too much. You need to take care of this."

The goo turned into a kind of foam. The clown bent down and picked up a handful. The second man asked, "Are you really supposed to be touching that?"

The clown extended his hand. "Take some home with you."

"Oh God," the third man said, "This is just awful."

The clown sighed. "Everyone's a critic." The clown put the foam into his mouth.

The first man said, "That was smoking. And it was on the floor."

The clown kept chewing. He smiled and rubbed his belly. The second man said, "Did he even really put it into his mouth, or is this some kind of trick?"

The clown opened his mouth. The whole inside was covered with what looked like yellow-green mush. The third man said, "I don't get why this is supposed to be funny."

The clown tilted his head back and puckered his lips. He blew the mush out, like his lips were a sprinkler. The mush flew nearly six feet into the air, then it dropped down, hitting the three men. They screamed and ran, because the mush burned them badly. The first man tried to pull the mush out of his hair, but he just ended up burning his hands. The second man dropped to the ground. He tried to roll around, hoping that the mush would drop off of him. Instead, it just seeped into his ears, eyes, and mouth. He screamed and screamed. The third man just crumpled, saying, "This can't be happening." The clown laughed and laughed as he walked away, being the biggest fan of his own joke.