Joy Yin
My scars are glossier than usual tonight. It could be the consequence of Vaseline or sweat, or both; I can no longer differentiate. Actually, I think there is something quite beautiful about having to sit here in quiet contemplation of whether Venus qualifies as being bipolar. Out on the balcony, I hear someone saying that they’ve seen a bat flying by. That’s strange, because I don’t live with anyone else, nor do bats live on this side of hell, nor do I even have a balcony. I look towards where it would be & see nothing but Coca-Cola sky. A gigantic Mento hangs in midair, surrounded by Venus (which has now fragmented into two indecisive dots). I wonder when it will drop through at just the right angle & explode the world into a soda geyser. The stars are melting off the ceiling, dripping slow pearls into the endless void of carbonated beverage. The Mento quivers, & I feel the universe around me, fizzing & warping to the rhythm of a folk song. I don’t know what to do with myself other than stay; all I’ve ever done is stay & ponder. So I linger here, waiting, watching the sky burst, wasting itself into a million impossible colors. Someone somewhere is dissolving. Everything is liquefying into wonder. Everything is bending, bending, bending into amnesia. Everything is holding its breath as we drown then resurface, again & again. The edges tremble & merge.
Then, everything settles into soundless sleep. All that is left of all of it is the buzz of fluorescent lights & the echo of my last name. Panting, I remember that I’m still here, holding the universe in my ceaseless chest.
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Joy Yin is a writer and poet based in Mexico City. Her works are published or forthcoming in BRAWL Lit, Milk Candy Review, Gone Lawn, Bending Genres, and more. She is also the founder and editor-in-chief of Lacuna Vox, a youth literary magazine.