by Kilian Conor
Of course I've fallen in love. Everyone makes mistakes.
There's a certain readjustment necessary to contain the swelling heart. A bigger ribcage, delicate and shining beneath my skin, under your fingers. I am bone and meat interlaced for breath to speak your name.
You took that from me. Crushed it between your ego and anger, and ground it deep into the floor. Repelled I blinked, realizing how badly I'd been taken. I took the matter into my court and deliberated the consequences.
A singular existence. A lonely one. Red.
The answer was red.
(Kil Conor writes short vulgarities, poetic atrocities, and tales of the very unfortunate. He also enjoys pie. Visit him HERE.)