We never watch the news at night. I've always been afraid of horror films and every story feels like another set of eyes watching me from the dark.
Overripe berry juice dribbles from stuffed cheeks onto my chin and chest. When the wasps come, I smile and pretend it was an accident.
When they found the end of the world, their eyes exploded in their heads and dripped down across their lips. They said nothing had ever tasted so sweet.
Give me a mirror.
I wish to look into it and see
The image of a dying girl.
she cannot read,
she cannot write,
she cannot speak,
and cries at night,
she cannot see,
she cannot feel,
she'll never be,
she is not real.
she cannot write,
she cannot speak,
and cries at night,
she cannot see,
she cannot feel,
she'll never be,
she is not real.
What am I ever experiencing? An obscure epilogue to my past or a strange prologue to my future, or is it just part of my story?
She cracks her knuckles against a tree trunk and smiles at me, sweetly lifts her dress and bends to kiss the foliage at her feet. She thinks I can't see the snakes inside her, tongues flicking out the crack and retreating inside. I ball a fist and ram it through, grab one by the neck and watch her moan in pleasure pain, knees shaking and slackened lips. I feel teeth in every one of my fingertips, but refuse to panic. The fuckers aren't poisonous yet.
Danica Green is a UK-based writer with publications in many anthologies and literary magazines, both print and online, as well as several literary competition wins.
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