By Kara Bell
When my mother found me the morning after,
“The sickly sweet smell of death is everywhere.”
How could I explain to her that my insides were decaying
that the heart that once held the strength
of exploding suns
was sick from the heat
that he had poured into me.
It’s been five years
And I’m still shivering with fever.
Looking back on it,
I’d say he reminded me of a cigarette lighter.
He just needed to watch something burn,
he just needed to taste the smoke.
He split me in two,
Jagged fragments of broken glass.
Blood and grime and gravel,
Scars shaped like mushroom clouds.
The insides of me were scraped raw,
the branches of my lungs burned black
the cities in my stomach crumbled.
His fingers like burning planes,
landing on my flesh.
He flossed his teeth with my sinewy strings,
he bathed himself
in the bloodiest bits of me.
The tender ache of a bruise
pulses between my thighs.
His lips moved in a prayer against mine.
But I want people to tremble at the sight of my destruction.
I want people to weep at the shrine of my ruins.
I’m starting to think that the first atomic bomb
Was made from the breaking of a heart.
Kara (pronounced Car-Uh) Bell is an Art History major at Flagler. She enjoys mountains, waterfalls, soft blankets, cat paws, rat whiskers, and the skin of clementines. Writing has shaped her reality since she was a little girl and is pretty much ingrained in her fingertips now. According to Kara, the best way to describe herself is a single candle glowing in an empty, dark room.