Fragments of a Yesterday
Two lungs are cinched at the waist: transparent and heaving; bearing the debris of a yesterday that never ended.
You flip the wooden frame, the stutter of a hand, trying to rewind the downward fall of regret.
You cradle the wooden ribcage, flipping the spine to watch as sediment drains through the valve of a dry, constricted throat.
But the glass throat is a bottleneck for all the grief we poured in, a dune for each futile breath we take.
Tension swells beneath transparent skin, a tightening in the chest that yields- only when your breath is held too long.
The glass strains; a sharp crystalline scream bursts open.
The minutes are glass needles on a rug, and the scattered sand is the only floor left to bleed on.
Cici Qin
19