The Opiate, Spring Vol. 13
This could be hell Amy Barry Filth pours out from a man with malocchio eyes, his black mouth gaping, a ravenous creature, in a trance, he wrenches my headgear— defiling his religion. Howling like an incensed hyena, a woman grabs my head, presses me down, I stumble— crumpled on the uneven cement floor, between the first strike and the second, or maybe the third and fourth, my head bows on the pavement, sharp point up— pokes, pierces my forehead, storms fiery rivulets across my cheeks. Praying in every violent second, I Stagger— in search of sanctuary.
94.
