#thornpuller

through lions hair I’ve fought distraught a weave of summer leaves in winters matrix

to fight our nature is a doom; to see rainbows on rose pedals was a sign of thorns in my side

insanity mark me! desperation in lions den—pushing through thorns to be reborn

scarred and a little less human tangled mane and limping towards the horizon

We drove for miles under a dead man’s din. Her fists on the wheel, her foot to the floor, her lips clenched on the cigarette, and the fresh blood on her white miniskirt spoke for an eternity.

“He shouldn’t have come between us,” she shattered.

I sat statuesque listening to the beating of a hideous heart. The sun was seeping into the darkness. The body laid dormant in the trunk.

BRIDGE OUT, the sign forewarned.

She eased her foot off of the accelerator and slowed to a stop at the edge of the bridge; the headlights illuminating a flimsy barricade made of plywood. She killed the engine; its roar replaced by the river’s.

She got out of the car, popped the trunk, and looked solemnly at the body; its head was looking towards her, eyes open. She caressed its face lovingly; took one last drag off her cigarette and flicked it into the dawn. She brushed away the blood soaked hair from its forehead and gave it a kiss on its cheek. I felt it on mine.

“He really shouldn’t have come between us,” she said as she patted the furry little creature in her blouse pocket.

I guess I shouldn’t have tried to get rid of her pet chinchilla, that filthy rodent.

She grabbed the crowbar with which she had bludgeoned me from behind and shut the trunk. She started the engine and placed it on neutral, jamming the crowbar between the seat and the accelerator. I tried to move but my specter was bound to my seat. She slammed her door closed and threw the car in drive through the open window.