The blood of how we became: you broke open your jaw and showed me marrows that I should not know. I had a dream where I shucked my bones out of my body, one by one. The spaces left hardened around their emptiness. I went to build you a palace but you were gone. I know your grip is strong and I have been waving my hand over your head. I woke up and I took my bones in hand. I wielded them as scythes and the hate-thick brambles untangled around my onslaught. I will find where they have cocooned you. I am sick of your apologies. One day we will walk on the rubbled bones of the grayest part of earth, where the moss does not grow, where the clouds curling in the sky promise rain and break their promises. Shuck your shirt in full view of the dying ice and let me pull the last of the thorns out from around your spine. The ruined and virgin earth will hatch lichen from your blood. From mine. Like as the beginning of the world. A bed for the reindeer to browse. You’ll scar up. You’ll survive. We’re used to that. Hold my hand.
Colin Fisher is from the American Rust Belt. He lives in Iceland, where he studies folklore, works with children, and procrastinates on knitting projects. He can be reached at firstname.lastname@example.org.