1 minute read
S. Lyons
No. 080421
After you left, I committed arson. I set fire to everything, even the wildflowers that had once grown through my ribs succumbed to the suffocating air.
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It’s true what they say about burning, how everything goes cold, paralyzingly numb, but comfortable almost.
Eventually the fires subsided and my insides became scorched earth. The carnage was somehow ethereal, the only sign of life was the leftover heat emanating from bones still smoldering.
I replanted my garden in the singed soil, picked each new seed by hand. Flowers, whose petals won’t remind me of you, rooted in the hallowed ground— sacred terrain to keep the trespassers out.
