swing the bullet into your skull by exhalants, literature
Literature
swing the bullet into your skull
i was disgusting and fragile like the glass sky, a tiny thing with bruised hips and battered wrists
i dug holes in the ocean and fractured the sunlight, the moonlight collapsed one night and the sun was gone, gone just like that, and that was the end of that
on occasion i would laugh and try to crawl out of the box i made and supply myself with food and oxygen, that was every once and a while
one day the oxygen just disappeared (and maybe i was tired of breathing)
and
one day the sun came back again and three people were burned alive, devoured by the light and the heat – all of it, so i cowered
and dug a hole
one day i
tried to be
it is gone: it is now all gone and you decide to give yourself to the sadness that does not betray you. because the sadness was always attached to your rib cage. it does not stubbornly bruise like the non-sadness. (the non-sadness i will not and do not know how to name. i do not want to name the non-sadness because it is sadness itself.)
they are screaming.
you are standing and you have a wire twisted around your neck. they are trembling under the table, silently leading and shaking and convincing to untwist that wire around your neck. that thin little wire that will leave a red imprint on your skin and threaten them with, and you will
‘let me ask you this, kid, you ready for the good fight?’
‘what good fight?’
‘disease and poverty, of course. grab the armor.’
‘my mother says to never play with matches.’
‘well, i ain’t your mother, am i, kid?’
‘you're something.’
‘i’m just a guy trying to get by in this world. but this world, see. it’s slowly getting consumed.’
‘how will this help? this armor. and these wooden envelopes. why are they wooden?’
‘why you gotta ask these questions, kid? this armor’s to help you. paper envelopes aren’t strong enough