Author: L KC

We are those former birds turned into rats, who scrape our fallen feathers together and glue them back onto ourselves in desperation to appear as our normal, old selves. A bird can fly, we once did but no longer. So we are rats, trying to find each other’s tails for the Rat King. Maybe then we will have enough feathers to form a bird again.

I could hear the end of the world in his voice. 

“I’m sorry, boy.”

We huddled on the ground together in the stomach of the evergreen. A bed of dry needles cushioned us and I could feel a sort of warmth from the clearing we were in, but the rain still pelted down and hit us. It was getting colder and I could feel Tommy giving up. At least he had a raincoat. He wrapped his arms around me and I was shaking. His tears were distinguished from the rest of the rain. 

“I want to kiss you.”

“You shouldn’t,” The Lily bowed its head. Its petals drooped over its face.

 “Nobody would kiss me anyway,” Merlin curled her body, her back barely touching The Lily’s stem. The Lily’s leaves shaded Merlin’s body from the sun. Her mousy hair flowed over the damp grass she lay on. The Lily gave no response.

“Maybe if I was pretty,” Merlin drew in a breath and kept it inside her tiny lungs for a moment. “If I was pretty, I would belong to someone.” As she felt its tepidness against her, Merlin wished The Lily were warmer.  

“You belong to yourself.” The Lily spoke in a quiet voice. It raised itself slightly. 

Merlin gave no response. She plucked a sliver of grass from the ground and smoothed it in between her fingers. The bubbling from the creek they lay beside seemed to grow more distant. Merlin sat up, separating herself from The Lily’s touch. She sat for a moment. Then she stood up, extending her legs and stretching her arms above her head. She stood by the creek, hesitated, and stepped fully into it, the frigid water rushing past her ankles and the stones slippery underneath her feet. The thought echoed through her skull: Why belong to yourself if you have nobody to share the belonging with? 

If you don’t like your skin, take someone else’s. The longer you wear it, the more it’ll become your own.

If lightning is thunder, is a cat its meow? Is every word I speak a part of me? Is a man the embodiment of his speech? I hope we learn to speak more kindly.

The pigeons are only as dirty as your city.

They may be rats with wings,

But they lack the animosity of man.

When the world dies, the pigeons will be there, their intelligence shimmering like the old sun, pushing their way through the city, existing among the carnage of end.

I need legs to walk the runway

I need curves to show my body

I need a voice to sing

I need wings to free my spirit

I’m scared of pretty things because I know I’ll never be one of them. As I touch my bumpy skin, dots of red flow across my face like a river. I know I’ll never be beautiful. I’ll never be beautiful.

As the world shapes itself around efficiency, as the organic hands of workers and artists get replaced by the dull churning of machines, I find it most peaceful to embrace stillness. I want to be the grass sleeping in between the sidewalk as people walk and bustle around it. I want to be the unmoving thing, the tree standing as the temperamental weather dashes back and forth from rain to sunshine to hail. I don’t have to be moving all the time. I don’t want to be pushed toward the pace that others expect me to live in. For now, I’ll be idle, existing in a plane between the busyness of society and the complete serenity of nothingness.