Origin
by Nina Dumornay
There is no path to walk down here to make you whole, you slithering slime soul, you splinted sponge, you walk through the door with a dribbling smile, good for you, the door frame says, curling steel hinges around your third-grade regret, blood leaking on stairs, you do not hear it. The carpet laps it up and it is gone when you enter the hall, its glazed eyes quiet under your feet, biding its time, muffling dust-bunny giggles as you round the corner. The air feels warm to you, like a weighted breath or a lion’s mouth, and this time, this time you see it—there, hanging from the ceiling, are all the ants you burned that summer pouring pools of sweat that splash against your cheeks. The guilt bubbles and sores, it hits you so hard that it leaves your skin feeling like it is sticky, like it is melting. Your scream caged in a blistering throat, you turn back to see the open door enveloped in a film of flesh and then you smell her. Deep,
deep in a place that shouldn't exist, in a forgotten hallway, an abandoned abyss, you smell her. With tears welling in disappearing eyes, you call out in a voice her body remembers.
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