Day comes and he brandishes a small pocket-knife, silver and whetted; he sticks it in my back and the blade twists in my body, drawing not only blood but a soundless cry as well. It’s hard to practice indifference and even harder to let a wingless bird go, so I cut myself open and this time what comes out is a hoarse laugh, piercing and dismal. My body is not mine, it never has been, and so I lay down with the wound still agape, under the sun which is still crimson in its oppressive heat, baked with salt. It’s dangerous and I carry a small knife with me everywhere I go, to cut people open, to see a flash of their wavering being, to see them undergo metamorphosis. One finds a peculiar reverie in cruel introspection. One must.
Valerie
Valerie (she/they) is an undergraduate student at the University of Toronto. Her works can be found on Medium.com under the handle @valerieng_ and in several online publications on the site. She loves 70’s rock and is a staunch defender of all things mint-chocolate-flavoured. When not writing, she’s probably out for a long run, getting coffee with a friend, or participating in the writer’s favourite hobby of overthinking.