Call it to the mountain molehill, for we are all dead in the long run

Salted wind slaps my face and venomous spit swirls on my tongue, all velvet and biting. I swallow wine. I think about my liver pickling. I hope that when I die I’m diced up into cubes and grinded by fossilized ocean creatures, because why does it matter anyhow? Spotlights searching for blackness in the void is, and of us. Humanity’s struggle. As I look over my balcony, hands grip vice on avian hollow bones and reduce them to dust. I hope the fruit of my tree smells, and is ripe as sunshine in midday or decaying organisms in the heat of one hundred degrees. The meadow larks opera staccatos on my ears, and my soul is tugged by reddened hands; massaged into warm, buttery, bliss. What eccentricities I am becoming too when I decree, “let porcelain shatter in crowded theaters if it must, for I am whole when you are I.”

Written by Ryan Love

Contributing Writer

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