Start dealing in the secret economy. The love of a song being about the ability to sing it. Precious starts to mean mine. Doing battle with an inter-dimensional demon, avoid the ornate rooms with small windows and only spindly furniture to smash them. You can’t fix your gaze when you’re dead. Lead paint over stamped tin. A spot on the wall, pretending at balance. I don’t want a past where I’ve never been marked. I want laser surgery for these scars. When you’re dead your gaze is fixed. Focus on the dark money. Legions of snakes speak the Aramaic of our zags. I don’t want a story where everyone could have behaved. Differently. Better. A bible in translation. An economy based on secrets, not what I want.
Sara Comito is a Florida writer whose poetry and fiction has appeared in places like Defenestration, Hip Mama, Saw Palm, Bending Genres, Thrush Poetry Journal, A-Minor Magazine, and Pirene’s Fountain. Find her at firstname.lastname@example.org and on Twitter: @Comito_writes.