Step Print

Step Print By Krizzia Ricci T. Nepomuceno

Eyes of quicksilver pierce through the sludge of a dirty grin—I smile grotesque. But under my featherless weight, your presence drops mercury.

Gradually.

Like two different earths meeting at the same gravity. Like the nicotine fumes welling up in my throat. Like my patina-scraped heels skidding over lethal doses of petroleum and dye.

The vapor lamps bounce the green off of a leather settee to an unoccupied ottoman. It relishes in its creases. It dances along to metal screams as the curtains trail the hand clutching a cigarette under the table. But the smoke and LEDs engulf me whole.

In prayer, in cacophony, I am an aphrodisiac for the heathens.

And every synagogue I’ve romanced has kept my tongue wet in the confession of my delusions. Spinning enough yarn to twist a tale of another you—my mechanical startle response. It’s an unresolved dogma building a dim chime that rings across the bell towers. You sing along to its novena. I run to the fire exit.

Still, I’ve learned to drink gasoline instead of burning my shoes at a bus stop. Allow it to relinquish the view from the cliffside and then throw it to sea.

But I died again today in vignette clips from a step print film—unbeknownst to me, blue is not a color for the highway.

There is no groan from the leg pressed dead under mine.

The settee remains in superposition.

My mouth is dry.

12

Art by Jaziel Ann V. Seballos