A Horror of Trinas
Inspired by Josh II: The Return of Josh by Josh Bell
Trina #1 ended up being the killer, though none of us suspected it. Well, that’s not true, Trina #6 did, the Trina that was most Trina. She saw great patterns all around us but didn’t trust her intuition. It was a feature of the Trinas to have a seed of doubt, embedded into all versions’ back of tongue. Trina #2 begged Trina #1 to team up, to have a Scream duo thing going on, to be like the Will to her Hannibal or the Louie to her Lestat, something oh anything to be taken under a wing. She was killed first. Trina #1 doesn’t need help and surely doesn’t ask for it. The third Trina was the horniest and next to die, though she had only ever fucked one person. Which was fine because Trina #4 more than made up for that, every ride at the carnival, every layer of scent, every new corner to turn and the thrill of what might bump into you. The Trinas shiver in unison, when one does we all do no matter where or what the occasion. The Trinas are ruining my life, said Trina #5 one day, before she jumped. That was when Trina #1 and none of us were the same. We didn’t know before what it meant to lose your name. Trina #6 tried a movie trick to get us all back together in one room but none of us showed. We didn’t know she’d been living with #5, washing her hair and feeding her when she didn’t want to leave the bed. And of course Trinas 7 through 9 tried to throw that in her face, oh you thought #5 was your dolly huh? you weirdo, you were always the weird one. They dressed in matching black and were very sarcastic. Certain people liked when cruelty was masked as a joke and Trinas 7 through 9 used that to their advantage to remain mostly unseen beyond the surface level. The triplets had each other, none of us could understand that bond. We don’t know where Trina #10 came from, but she’s ours now. That is all the Trinas I can keep track of, as we are on the hunt for #1, but if you run into any just know: you are safe. Trinas only attack other Trinas.
2005 Bildungsroman
a golden shovel after Tomica Bajsić, When You Hit Yourself with an Axe While Chopping Wood
My friend’s stepdad says she can only start wearing makeup when
I do. Shortly after, I begin to line my eyes black so she can too. Better the
defiance begin now. Set the tone. Black wings, for we do not choose prison.
We turn away from our names called, his beckoning behind a closed door.
Burgundy box dye and bleach, two razors sharpening as we cut our own bangs:
mine into a point, a widow’s peak in exaggerated mourning; hers swooped to shut
out her vision and the sun, to match the blood colored glasses she viewed life behind.
Very emo, and with every right to be. It is not my trauma to claim. But when your
BFF wants to avoid home and there’s a local show not too far, you have her back.
As the stagelights dim you look to each other, communicate through lyrics. That’s
evidence of magic, the ability to see and be seen in the dark. It’s only after, when
the band guys lurk out of the venue, prowling for teenage effervescence, that you
feel a bit of tainting. The champagne timeline gone flat. You neither say nor think
any man’s name five times and yet, here he is. I learned my mother was right about
that. Thumbs gouge ruby citrused skin; this fetish for peeling a thing of its freedom.
Trina Young is a poet from Chicago, IL. They have been published in Superstition Review, Burning House Press, Giallo Lit, Sporklet, Kissing Dynamite, Vestal Review, and other online publications. She is currently working on completing poems for a chapbook and in the Novel In a Year Program with StoryStudio, and can be found in conversation with other works at echophrasis.substack.com. With a degree in psychology stemming from a desire to support community and understand others, poetry has always been a foundational source of their curiosity and compassion.
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