"False Hope" by S.Emily

False Hope

I’m dying. I'm having conversations with muddled sunsets in my head. I’m watching my mouth

form insults between lacerations, reducing in fear. I’m unconditionally. Feel my insecurity. I’m

standing on bone plates, red angels are forming. Lines around a traffic jam. Excuse my fuzz

around lies, generic but they’re my shoulders, I’m having a physical reaction to your body in this wiccan church. In Pasadena, both of my hands are being sewn by a them-devil, by a

necromancer. Oral oncologist rejected by mormons. Oh remove these gloomy shawls from my

chest, scalpel me. I’ll chew on your latex. It’s the clumps of makeshift people stuck in the larynx. You’ll feed them forever. It’s in my head. The ocean fell and my finger beds rejected the cheap aerosol that smells great on you.

I'm lying on a carpet. Wait, I’m not there. I’m standing outside your temple. I’m gathering

tendons in spit, jaws and releasing. I’ll whisper. I need you to understand. It’s okay to stab my

pulsating gasps, I only desire palpitations of a selected tongue and I can’t get to it in time. See. Look before. I already mentioned traffic, the granite trembling under a pyromaniac. Nothing is

true. I can’t, even for you.

“It’s all been done.” You can’t show me a pseudo response even when my flesh is seeking a

refuge in salt water. Brimming, wiping down with high quality bleach. Now the witch is dead, or just given up as saliva drools and falls on this clear flame, led by volted batteries. They can’t help me. Because I’m too scared to mention your name. I cursed the wrong atom in a

neurodivergent daze. I escape all responsibility till I feel a firm push between my breasts. There better be sweat. You haven’t even felt me under your thighs, and I’m dying. It’s not true, even for you.

Small Bio: Inuit writer from Canada.