Corner

I dream about smashing skulls into the corners of tables


but last night I didn’t


last night I dreamt the bodies were already wrapped up, with packing tape, the brown too-shiny kind, the threaten to rip-at-any-second type


and they were stuffed hastily into a too-large suitcase on top of all my favourite possessions

but somehow they stacked neatly with everyone else, quiet, murmuring,


there is no longer a difference between the once-alive and the once-dead.

something glints, meaningfully, underneath the crackling bodies


I exclaim in delight as I recognise them as forgotten clothes I once-loved

so I pull them out in a flourish.


who would be so silly to put all my favourite things in this suitcase?


isn’t it to be rid of? isn’t it to be parted with?


why would I ever want to let go of you? why would I ever need to?

a flashback pierces my skull this time.


I saw how my shin bone sawed off its head. I saw how my applied pressure made their eyes bulge out, it was almost comical (but I don’t laugh).


so we have a history... we did so much together... didn’t you laugh with me at the point of

contact? (you laughed your head off, and I offered one in return).

but now you lie neatly with the other two and I don’t recognise you anymore.

there’s no blood on my hands


there is only the sharp corner of a table.

by Yulin Huang