posts-issue4 Tag

أنا قاتل نفسي

I curl my toes under my thighbones,begging my own body for some warmth.My trembling toes are colder than the waterthat drips on my numb ribs.“Trikuni!”((Let me go))I am screaming,screaming, screamingscreamingto someone (anyone)but no sound escapes my parched lipsfor reasonsbeyond my reasoning Badi may, ya imme((I need water, mother))Itchy concert throats and digesting French toasts. Beyond the windows,the waves break over the timeline of the horizonas a misinterpreted French songslows down the setting of the sun.beneath the windows,invisible, intense spasms of air createa crawling sensation of critters on my back,but quite oddlythere is a familiarity to these jitters thatmakes me want