The Night Tastes Like Wine
WRITTEN BY EMILY PENG
I woke up to a man hammering my
skull, giggling as he watched dandelions
explode through the cracks. My tongue sits,
severed, in red wine & from a gaping
black hole, I scream about how I can still
taste the salt on your breath. Ax positioned
at my neck, he asks if I want to die & when
I don’t speak, he morphs into a flock of
white doves. I will his wings to fly: they
erupt, raining feathers down my tongue,
lodged between my teeth. A bird without
wings is the empty road inching along the
ridge of my spine; soul-less bodies scattered
on my floor, spelling out your name. When I
am lonely, I imagine my coccyx bone hanging
around your neck, comforted by the fact
that when I am nothing, I am your victim.
I ax my body into a golden sword & there
in the dark, I imagine your grin. My tongue
still tastes the softness you never gave to me.