1 minute read
Anger March
The cracks in my skin weep. The fracture lines glow red hot and ooze thick acidic tears along my charred flesh.
Hissing and bubbling trails drip, drip, drip to the ground leaving rings in the puddles at my feet.
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My fiery flow is like lava cooling into stones and I leave behind an echo of my chaos in my wake, hard memories full of holes.
My body mutates with each step taken in my anger march.
The ugly creature I have become bears no resemblance to my former self. There is no path back, a way to heal the land I’ve scorched.
The only way to end my wave of destruction is to burn out.
Eventually, I will find my final phase in rest, as a reservoir of cold regret.
Tinamarie Cox
Bio: Tinamarie Cox lives in Arizona with her husband and two children. Her work has appeared in several publications, and she is also the author of a poetry chapbook, Self-Destruction in Small Doses (Bottlecap Press). You can find more of her work at tinamariethinkstoomuch.weebly.com, and follow her on Instagram @tinamariethinkstoomuch or Twitter @tinamarie_cox.
On The Other Side
‘This is not a drill,’ he grinned Brandishing his Black and Decker ‘We have to keep them out And us, in.’
Turns out he was serious So convinced was he Of the imminent end of days, it seemed The only sensible thing to do As far as he could see Was to make a den Impenetrable and fortified
She could not persuade him otherwise So she became complicit In the hoarding Of tinned goods and bog roll Pasta and Pot Noodles Medications and bandages
In the boarding up of every window Using the Black and Decker to Firmly screw planks in place
(It was not a drill)
In the cutting of the landline umbilical The smashing of the Wi-Fi router And his custom-built computer Relinquishing the link To the life outside his head
And he knew that generator
Boot sale bargain from yonks ago
Would come in handy
Once he figured out
How to wire it up
So they decamped to The old coach house
Adjacent to their rambling Tudor pile
Because it was safer
Less prone to attack
One way in, one way out
Sturdily immovable oak doors
No windows
But one night
Saddened and scared by his wide-eyed truth
One too many tales
Of flame-sworded angels and judgemental
Saucer-eyed aliens
She stole out of the yet unboarded Back door while he slept
Took the Black and Decker
Barricaded him in From the outside
Ran, and kept on running
On the other side
Forming a sad right angle
Between doors and floor
Slumped, awaiting her return
He knows it’s a forlorn hope
Dave Kurley