i fell out of love into a speeding car travelling to this place that burned bright yellow in the blackness of spring. in my left hand i held three photographs from when i was a child, in my right hand i thumbed my grandmother’s rosary. there is a hunger for something, alive in the middle of my chest. it is cracking me open like a thunder filled sky.

how briefly does the body recover from tragedy?

my fingers point to my heart and i tell you this is where i was once alive, little suns shone in here and i was open like moonflowers at dusk. now this is where blue-blooded thieves ignited fires beneath our seats and fanned the flames till all that was left was ash and smog.

a voice in my courts whispers soundless words into my ears, torrential slush circles my bed and it roars and roars and roars and still I lay here awake in the softest part of day writing my body into stories of devotion because it knows the cost of moving into morning, pulling itself out of quicksand and spitting out heavy words onto paper, words that govern my steps and keep my eyes pulled open.

how briefly does the body recover from tragedy?

they told me light is born from the crucifixion of shame and things heal when they find a place called home or something to dream about. but i’ve grown disgusted with dreams and home is only a place where my sisters are sent to drown.

Show your support

Clapping shows how much you appreciated nneomack’s story.