Natalie Crick, from the UK, has poetry published or forthcoming in a range of journals, including Ink In Thirds, The Penwood Review, Interpreters House, The Chiron Review and Rust and Moth. This year her poem, ‘Sunday School’, was nominated for the Pushcart Prize.
COPYRIGHT 2016 LITERARY JUICE. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
The poison drips steadily into my skull.
Lice are feeding. They are carnivorous.
She is biting away at my life.
I am merely a husk.
She watches me lie awake at night.
She lives in me, breathing,
Locking my heart away in a chamber
Where nothing moves.
Where the air freezes to ice.
I wait for a sound.
There is no end.
I remember the beginning: a death.
We are white with exhaustion at what this thing is.
It is the last night of our lives.
Tomorrow I’ll be gone.
She is alive. Look:
It is beginning to hatch.
But it is dark. So dark.
I can barely see my own reflection in the mirror.
There is just some stranger.
We try to catch the pieces of me
Before they shatter forever.
Misted snow drifts over the remains.
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