by Priyanka Thomas
Reds and blues, mixing within a cracking jar, glow with a haunt that creeps over my fingertips. My eyes are fixed on the mixing and the haze, the blue slowly mixing away, the red seeping through the cracks of the jar. As it pours out onto my palms, it reeks of wet fur and rotten meat. The odor reaches my eyes and I slam them shut, but I can still see the red’s darkness creep through the creases in my fingers. Suddenly, my skin grows warm… it burns, it burns. The red boils on my hands and my skin burns blue, then black. I try to rub the liquid off on my shirt, but it spreads onto my chest, into my ribs, meat, cavities. Stop! Stop! My lips only mouth these words, as my throat closes up and buries itself beneath my lungs, burning, burning, burning.
