I imagine you walking along the edge of the shadows, using “Q-tips” to remove the skeleton-layered truths about your ears, sticking a finger down your throat to expel your blame-filled stomach, even warming yourself up with your own tears because you’ve tired of fire. I imagine you then closing your eyes so that you lose your shadow, wishing for your horns, your barbed tongue, your hooves to ripen and decay. Perhaps you pluck out your eyes when they don’t. Perhaps you’ll sew up your mouth and penis just so you can refrain from making fog. You’ll even burn your hands to ash. But you’ll still hear of your elephant-like touch, of your snaky tongue banging eardrums, of the imprint left behind by your fingerless fingerprints. And your eyes will sweat enough to remake the Flood. And then your knees might kiss the ground and you might pray to the prayer-answerer to be the next lamb slaughtered.
(This piece was published by The Bookends Review here. Send your work there if you’re interested in publishing.)