There is a form of crystal which grows on corpses. Whoever decides these things? Rot bringing rebirth – that kind of nonsense. Gem: a synonym for anything precious. Lord, how I’d love to be more than a suitcase of flesh, a tower of bones. In owl pellets, you might find bits of bird feather and mice bones undigested. You may tie a string around the bones and feather, securing it about your throat. Next to the diamonds and glowing jade of the world, you can be both purposeful and beautiful. You may ask the bodies: Is it cold where you are? Is it lonely among the outer planets, sleeping forever on the decaying star? You may look in the mirror, tracing your collarbone, sure that is holier than before.
W.C. Perry (they/them) is a writer from Chillicothe, Ohio. Their work has appeared in Meat for Tea, GRIFFEL, Taco Bell Quarterly, Night Picnic, the first BULLSHIT anthology, and elsewhere. To contact this author, burn a candle on a starless night and scream into the nearest cornfield — they’ll get back to you eventually — or if that’s too much work, on Twitter and Instagram @remotecatalyst.
photo by Carles Millan (via wikimedia commons)