fairy tale as dystopian love poem on the last night on earth we take care of anything that matters. i pour you a cup of hot tea and we sit on the couch in front of the fireplace, wrapped in blankets, hearing out the silence. not everything makes a sound like another thing. i ask you if you are hungry and you tell me to snuggle closer. at some point the radio static turns into a man’s voice, soothing like a needle thread pulled through a thin sweater. he narrates your favorite story, the story where the heroine escapes on her own and does not marry. i pour you another cup and you snuggle closer. not everything makes a sound like another thing. the fireplace takes care of anything that matters. i ask you if you are hungry and you tell me please don’t forget me. i pour you another cup. this is your favorite story.
an account of bone breaking i cut off my head and that’s how i know the night is going well. life in the middle of disappointment hatches from the egg but you don’t look. there’s something else surfacing the spinal cord, an example of a stone taken from the grave. i want our bodies to live inside a footnote but the key is wrong. i want the landscape to swallow up any stillborn nature throws at us like fledglings. i am useless but i love you. i love you and i know because i am useless when the artificial candle lights up half of my face. the other half is for you. we remember moments by people. i remember what time of day it is by pinning my body on a stake and ask for your blessing. your lips dry eventually but the promise remains intact. it makes no sense to love the distance but the angels hold you close to me. too many angels go around and rot and we run the risk of falling into language. i wish you liked me more. i wish the stone would turn itself in and confess the necessary numbers. days i love, days i love you. everything is binary when we carve hunger from the oracle, when we watch silence take its first step around the kitchen table. i cry in a language that is not my own. does that not make it my own. a seed, a mayflower, a corpse, dreaming on its own. let’s kill everything because love might be the wrong word.
Beeper Peddle is a writer and healer living on the East Coast. She lives with her partner and their beloved soul puppy. Beeper writes about sorrows, lies, and deep loves. When you read her work, you will dip down into her heart and end up in all manner of body parts. Should you find yourself reflected in these words, it is merely coincidence; however, it does not surprise her you share the same heart. Find her at bethpeddle.com and @beeperpeddle on Twitter and Instagram
Kevin Hüttenmüller is a writer and student currently studying special education in Germany. Their work is forthcoming in Emerge Literary Journal and Eunoia Review.