Vanishing Point
crying wolf
inside a broken mirror, your face is vanishing.
staring back, some snake oil dealer is telling
your fortune, talking in prophecy. it’s got you
looking into the future, and now you’re asking
for forgiveness in advance. like a masochist
prodigal son, before you return, you’re wondering
if you deserve a second chance. either way, you
don’t think you need a savior, and you have got
no business praying – because up there on that
cross, jesus forgot you. now heaven is circling,
while down here, we are drunk on poison. a bar fight,
a broken rib. bloody hands, a briar crown. this is
how we forget: everything dulled, blacked out. these
nightmares, these visions, these bloodshot eyes.
unclench your fists and try to remember, and don’t
force it down: how badly you wanted to believe.
over
your mind is a flickering bulb – thoughts static, then
disappearing. faulty circuitry, or were you hit too
many times? in your father’s house, there’s a
massacre, a scene you rearrange. then you crawl,
face-down, cutting teeth, bleeding knees, heavy
breaths, on the porch, outside. no sound of sirens,
no blue or blinding lights. in the pitch-black, you’re
invisible. middle of the night, in the perforated dark,
the imprint of your body is the only living thing left.
conversation piece
it’s after midnight in a room you can’t leave, and your
voice is a whisper. it’s not so cut and dry, you swear.
but if the walls could talk, if the floorboards could
sing, the things they would say. you could call upon
the spirit, but oh, your ghosts are not holy. so you
swallow the truth in a holding pattern and offer up
empty echoes. what have you convinced yourself of?
the hours pass: now you’re waiting, now you’re
wondering, now you’re sleeping in your clothes. and
now, now, you’re doing math in your head. it’s only
a matter of time before you break – they all do.
funeral pyre
read it in the paper, saw the news on tv: a family,
loved, now gone. spent a weekend in a church,
chapel door open to pews full of a thousand or more.
they’re heaving out their broken hymns. they’re
holding embers in their hands. they’re crying out to
jesus. oh lord, they always did what’s right. they’re
looking for a reason, but what does it matter?
shotgun, hatchet, knife – we don’t get to decide how
we die. and all the while, the good lord looks the
other way. he doesn’t care that a boy, a brother –
you – are missing, are a city away. it’s your birthday,
and there are only vacant skeletons to keep you
company, and you’re trapped in a labyrinth of your
own making. and this labyrinth is a dying sun. and
this labyrinth is a black hole. it’s something you
cannot escape. and you’ll never find your way out.
relative fiction
telling a lie is easy – it lets you avoid listing your
failures out loud. you know what they say about you.
a ruined sinner and a wasted soul. you broken boy,
callous like the ocean, caught in its undertow. no
mercy, no sympathy. grit your teeth and meet them
with a blank stare. but we’re not fooled. if we can’t
bring them back, at least we can destroy your name.
a public conviction: we can feed you to the wolves.
with a pale neck and shaking hands, count
backwards from ten. your lungs are rotten, heavy
from choking on your human nature. you’re breathing
and you’re still alive, costumed in monstrosity.
turn out the lights
all the visitors went home, and you’re left to face
your biggest mistake. a vision unending (repeats,
repeats). you shell of a boy, an orphan by your own
hand – will it ever get better? here inside, it’s all
concrete and fear, so keep your head down – low,
lower. you have this recurring dream: your ex-lover’s
arms and another broken heart. and living with
demons that never leave isn’t easy. and everything
you eat tastes like regret. so how can you hurt less?
your prayers are apologies and you’re alone with the
night, the stars, and orion’s belt around your neck.
midnight in cells, and it’s all black, all the time. why
stay when you could leave? you ruin everything.
favor
glow like a cherry falling, stay tender, like an apology,
like an invention, like someone i’d want to hold. (how
you hate to be lonely.) you want love? come put your
hands on me, across this strip – this is as close as
you’re gonna get. tell me stories, make up some
good news. spill out your emptiness and i’ll kiss your
insides clean. we find escape in little oblivions; they
keep your heart alive, and they make us feel half
okay. i admit: i think of you every night, and i see
your face in my sleep. i have a bleeding heart, but
i’m not stupid. there’s a fix for everything, but i know i
can’t fix you. i’ll try to put you back together anyway.
you’re what i want, so keep talking. and i don’t care if
you’re honest, if it’s fiction or half-truth. believe me:
i’ll believe you if you make me feel something.
Natalye Childress (she/her) is a Berlin-based editor, writer, and translator. She has an MA in Creative Writing, and her first book, The Aftermath of Forever, was published by Microcosm Publishing in 2014. Find her on Twitter @deutschbitte, Instagram @natalyereads, or https://www.natalye.com.