It was pitch-black inside the bunker walls, sixteen inches wide, just enough room to squeeze through single-file. Dead ends everywhere. Optical illusions poured into the concrete. To confuse the enemy, she said, though if the enemy was already inside the walls confusing them probably wouldn’t be much help. I understood that with perfect clarity, having been in love this whole time.

Fort Flagler, Marrowstone Island, WA.


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Christina Collins lived most of her life on the West Coast until the omnipresent terminus of the sea became too demanding. She currently resides in Minneapolis where she writes, paints, and takes pictures of beautiful strangers without their knowledge. She is the founder and poetry editor of Lockjaw Magazine. She tweets at @PoorSelfControl.