by Jennifer Rust
I ripped it
From the core of existence.
I flushed down the river.
I stomped it
cold on the ground.
Let me breath, I tell him.
He doesn’t listen.
“I’d rather break my bones
Than stare at you again...”
That’s what I tell him.
But he doesn’t understand that
There’s a whole hole in my chest
Three feet deep and the circumference
Of my hand.
I let the wind catch breeze in there.
I let water drip until stalagmites and stalactites form like crocodile teeth.
He doesn’t understand the holes on my wrists when I try to reach in
Even after knowing how empty it is.
He’ll never understand these bugs in stomach
They dug tunnels in the lining when I looked too long
When I wanted to know how it felt
To just hold his hand.
He’ll never know how he punctured my body,
Deflated my lungs
Like gun bullets
My sour acid pouring out the holes.
No wonder why you won’t look back,
I’m hideous now.
Jennifer Rust is a young writer from Delaware and has obsessed with storytelling since she was a child. She tries to learn many different forms of writing and has tried screenplays, stage plays, poetry, short stories, and essays. In 2018, she became a National Youngarts merit winner in writing. When she is not writing she is drawing or consuming someone else's writing. Currently Jennifer is going to Columbia College Chicago for creative writing.