sister in flames

by Feng

Excerpt from the Antelopenvelope project:

Your patience is only as wide as this net. If you stroke human skin gently enough long enough, it will split. Yes, I’m still willing to try it with you. The thin films wrapping our inner organs, these abrade. When I walk around or when we roll over speed bumps, my body chafes, a pith of spikes, the inner stuff pivoting too close together. So when we get to the restaurant, Italian, we eat mussels and hammer red crabs with mallets like judges. They pop open in the heat, you say. I cannot stomach the bright inside, shut around the genital heart, black-lashed, small tongued. You take all the orange oysters. They see all the way down into your gut.

Little do I know that you are about to walk out of my life. You have a love for the burnt tone past. You own a picture of the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory. You will step out of the car full of crab and walk into an emergency. Blueprints for clothes to wrap around a woman’s body will light up like retinas and you will walk to the window and maybe you will see someone kissing someone else before they jump out the window. You will jump out the window.

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