obscenities muted by mind-
less noise, less thought
just unheard commotion
in roadblock tunnels
that lead where?
you keep scrolling, suffocate
efforts seek to destroy
harder, cough until
the last breath
clears a new passage
of unfiltered thoughts
I left, gone for nothing but a few books. They crammed into every dusty corner on the shelf above my spinal column, carefully chiseled Ionic that only sounded like the chemistry I studied.
The colors of the solutions I made swirled together like a tornado, mesmerizing the eyes until the beaker crashed to the ground with the force of the reaction. Liquid leaked from the ceiling and the walls, burning the wallpaper and dripping from the light fixtures onto my saturated hair.
I opened my mouth but the scream was not my own – it was my mother’s looking down on the world melting around me. I was in a glass box but I wasn’t, it had shattered to the ground – my beaker destroyed, my spine stronger than ever.
I stretched and grew taller than my mother, picking her up in my hand like a cradle to her tiny body. Looking down, the broken glass was nothing more than the mosaic of what wasn’t ever an accident.
Looking up caused the books on my shelf to slide to the back end of my head, where they slid down my throat. I swallowed them and digested their contents. When my mother falls sick, I will swallow her too so she can rest in the coated right ventricle of my heart.
Jordan Karnyski's work can be currently found in The Voice and The East Aurora Advertiser. She currently lives in Boston, where she is studying Biochemistry and Molecular Biology at Boston University, but calls Buffalo, New York, home.