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September 21, 2015 | Fiction

Die Ag No Sis

Nicholas Olson

Die Ag No Sis photo

To fall asleep in this room that is like forgetting your face. To see this face splintering in room's broken mirror and to look at your bug eyes because they are numerous. To walk behind this motel and to sit on the ground, in front of the dumpster where there's a blood map been drawn on the limp face of a mattress. To eat the cacahuates con chile the vendor sold you. To read his pain in the lines on his face. To remember and to wonder about forgetfulness. To disrobe in night quiet and feel these pebbles, this gravel, all of it underfoot and running away. To study photographed faces, clouded in dust that got in under polaroid's plastic flap. To wait in line at the soup kitchen with thousands of dollars in your bank account. To not see her there. To leave. To gather a squirrel carcass in your arms and the smell of it. To force conversation at the bus stop and to wipe the blood underneath the soles of your shoes: the under of your under. To collect fragments of screaming matches in your damp bed, the drops rolling from your forehead past the corners of your eyes like tears. To want to mash all of these things between your teeth, so many things to mash. To break it into its composite parts: die ag no sis. To laugh at this word's varied cruelties and the songs you sang together when there were marshmallows in your mouths and the sprinkler was sat on and busted, when the tiny rainbow came from underneath your bathing suit. To stand in the hole you dug together, trying for China but stopping at the gas line. To watch these screens with your father, waiting your turn, and the things he makes you watch are only made of tiny dots. To fuck a stranger in a stall across from the motel and to smell what you've done, what you've made together. To put on one dress and then another until you can't feel anything. To hear your teeth rattle in bed with the pepto pink of dawn coming through the window. To choose forgiveness and to wash it out with spit and perfume and whiskey. To stand at the stone with the knife and the whiskey and to scratch out father. To try carving it back in. To not think for a day. To void your mind.

To go to support group for the free coffee and to pee this coffee into a toilet that is not yours. To walk out into a field, weightless, and to see her there: remade, re-naissanced, reborn.

image: Ryan MacDonald


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