She ripped the thorns off
all the flowers of her
garden (the only one on
the rooftops of Sticks St.),
and placed a heap
of them in her palm.
When the last one fell
into the pile, she made
a tight fist, sinking them
into her sensitive skin.
As the sting shot up her
arm, through her nerves,
formicating her bones,
she slugged a mirror. She
glared at her reflection in
the spider web, and from
her grimace she sneered.
“This is me“, she hissed.
“We shouldn’t be strangers”.
-
by Aleksander Mielnikow | Alek the Poet
By the way, FORMICATING is the feeling of insects crawling on skin.
Photo before editing by Matthias Cooper from Pexels
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