A child blossomed from the womb of a bleeding mother. Her eyes were almond, her lips were strawberries, and her skin was milk. The perfect smoothie blend for a living depredation.
As the mother sleeps in the morgue—a conclusion of the fatal birth—the child cries alone, body covered in blankets.
If my mind wasn't so grotesque and my hands weren't so frigid, I would cradle her body and tell her she isn't alone. She will never be alone and life wouldn't be a concept of nonsensical meanings. That I have her and she has me.
However, that is only for her father.
أنت تقرأ
Foe ✓
القصة القصيرة❝When we perceive the world as our haven, it is an irony, annihilating its own paradox.❞ Life, death, and the petals of Japan. Copyright © 2017 by s.r
