The continents are not countries
Smelling like mid-menstrual cycle, I hear the news echo from the kitchen:
Church buys fuzzy handcuffs for State. Fuzz color yet to be determined.
which makes me realize: I don’t remember what religion has ever done for me,
so it probably never did anything for me at all
I Google “religion”, which triggers a flash-memory of a plastic rosary bedazzled
against plaid and -
for some reason, I think of that grunge-obsessed girl I used to work with, who
thought Europe was a country
The schizoid part of me makes paper airplanes out of Stayfree pads.
But cotton and jet fuel would burn, I think –
and I’ve never seen anything actually catch fire in mid-air, except that one wish
I made for a painless suicide, one that would give me a soul without a body -
a soul who made a living stuffing rabbit hearts with breadcrumbs, hiding them in the grass for
wolves to find. They must know it’s Easter, too.
Arielle Tipa is a writer and editor who lives near a haunted lake in New York. Her work has been featured in (b)OINK, Alien Mouth, and thread, among others. She currently runs Occulum, a journal of the unabashed and unorthodox.