TITLE: "new place"
AUTHOR: Arianna Kanji
TRIGGER WARNING: MENTIONS OF BLOOD
something sticks to my smooth stalks like butter
shifting jelly in the bend of vibration
a hunch of pointed edges pulled into the deep abyss of slimy darkness
turning curricular patterns like dials, like something—
a word pinched on the side of a cavern but my rod is too short to reach it.
spikes sliced down to the flakes and stuck
tasting of fire and dead leaves and boxes—there’s a horizon, but that means nothing to me.
location unknown, unseen behind bigger things—are there bigger things?
no, perhaps nothing but the curves and the fuzzy shapes picking battles in static
and the hills paving on my shell can sense
something-wet something-dripping something-vibrant something-missing.
walls on either side—one dim, one dark, one tinted—
and a force pulling at the thing under the covering that I cannot peel apart
because with every layer there is always more.
monsters pull down beneath me
aching holes wearily shifting the space in overwhelming shadow
I pull every one of my edges into a circle like mining my own gaping hole
but the spider’s web of hefty strings prevents me from collapsing in on myself
except the web is singular, and it shifts
and it does not sway because it is out of my reach—it is all out of my reach
I reach nonetheless, but I find I have nothing to do so with—
my stalks have rotted away to plump and deformed slugs.
something disturb the space; not the one spread out in front of me, but around me
around something not-me. invisible and nonexistent, it grows—I cannot see it, but it grows
the abyss cracks. the lines I cannot see but proudly own snapping one by one
and the darkness is temporary—
it existed for a second and it does now, but it has a competitor. a joyous one.
splitting apart a layer of dead leaves covering
though heavy and hard and unmoving to the touch—
beneath another there is another and another and then there is me.
with every layer there is always more
with every layer the hills disappear
their pathways crushed with pomegranate seeds gone bad. red. raw.
I can feel, deep beneath something-missing, what it means to not understand
I clutch my feet—not slippery monsters
and pull my chest into my knees—not heavy stone burdens
and I do not understand. but I understand that
and taste the blood-not-butter in my little pink mouth
and the dead leaves split into skin
and I move with wide eyes like water through a beating light.
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