Author: Hari Navarro, Staff Writer
Arsia Mons, 2nd Division Habitat – Kohi Homestead – Mars.
Every night I fall into the blades and they thin me. I could tell you my name, but all that would do is give label to this skinny fucking bitch that I have become.
I am chosen. But, all I want is to hide beneath the rocks at the bottom of the murky pool. I do not want this light.
Watch as the ink sky rips and it’s sores spill out and crackle upon your tongue, you taste them right? I mean, you do… please, please say that you do. I’m not fucking crazy. These things, they look like stars but they are sent for us to consume.
But, maybe, I should hold still and wait. No?
Do you not think?
I don’t think you do.
See, if perhaps nothing at all falls of worth from these grabbed and twisted nothings, these things I am taken to molest in my ever-twitching and hopelessly gnarled fists — then, maybe we are to be saved.
I imagine I am pushed, you see? With vicious force, down and through all that I have ever thought with frantic anger, and spittle flays from my lips and then I appear back and upon this sanguine thing in a time before ever I was pushed.
I have stacked a wall though, a token to remind. I have felt the weight of every last brick in my hands and their mortar has dried and prised opened my skin.
A convergence of all the fragment bits that time has ever heaved out upon my hands and thrust up beneath of my nails.
And, but yet again, as I fashion this cage of latticed letters around all I could ever hope to be and I try to scrub the ruddy shale — I am lost.
In this pooling instant I wish to erase from my mind only but this::: My hand and that gentle diverting nudge to its weak wrist as the blade skimmed off of the bone of your cheek and you leaked out and onto this wanton plain.
Red on red. Human blood that bubbled through the breach slit at the face of your suit and the ramping vile spittle wheeze that spat death into your visor as you clutched like Kennedy at your neck and you fell.
I do so very much hate this fucking planet and I hereby blame its perpetual lulling silence for all… yes, all. For every last damned thing I have ever, ever done.
I cannot be blamed for this.
This oh so fascinating fuck ball of red dead stone made me do it… do not try to sway me otherwise.
Now she is gone and I am the very last… I can rule as I do and the sand can mind its own mind and I will never have to feel the weep of her warm breath at my shoulder, nor her clasped hands at my breasts as she rocks me gently to sleep. No I do not have to feel ever, not ever… ever again.