I’m in a carousel. The kind that spins people to the wall. There is a woman and a man and a man inside of it too, and a man operating it. Everybody I love is looking down at me, laughing. When I die, I’ll die alone. I know that much, held down by my own shadow, wanting to touch the woman, the man, the man, across the curvature. I won’t be able to even look. I’m on a train. I’m a tiny spider. A tiny star. Or a giant spider. When everything stops, I’ll open the only door to the carousel and it’ll be the wrong one I’ve forgotten entering. Copyright © 2016 Zachary Schomburg. Used with permission of the author. |
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