September 15, 2015
The air is red. It slaps me like a thousand little pills as I fall through music and limbs. Every hand is a mouth, a word. This one wants a tibia, that one wants blood. I lean my head back and laugh, baring my incisors. You know, it’s true, what you said. You need to starve to be free. Let it wipe everything clean. My fingers reach out and dig. A rib, a sternum, the hollow of a collarbone. It’s good. Hot hands cover my neck and stomach like peaches. They press, pinch. They’re taking my language, making it too bright, too solid to reside in bones. I shut my eyes and see your pale back, just before you jumped. I jumped. I’m falling now, falling through blue and yellow and violet, through hard noise. Will you be at the bottom?
Sara Henry’s work has appeared in Word Riot, The Doctor T.J. Eckleburg Review, The Adroit Journal, and elsewhere. She lives in Brooklyn and works at a literary agency in Manhattan.
What motivates her to create:
“Secrets motivate me to create. They can be shameful, strange, and unpredictable, but they always tell the truth, polite conversation be damned. With the power to transform the ugliest parts of us into the most beautiful, secrets are the closest things to magic we have.”