One sided conversation with death, Cristine Gostinski Costa
I run into the room shutting the door
with a bang, the wind and dust goes
through my lacey bones like an old
woman forgotten in her early days.
The crunch of my fingers hunts me.
I count the books, I count the pages,
I count how many breaths I take.
Everything is blank. My breath
becomes a fight for air and I feel
like an unwanted guest in the room I
slept for numerous days.
The door is locked. Here I know I'm
going to meet death, fall into the
bed with her silence. I choke on my
own tongue, I try to swallow but it
gets stuck on my throat.
I can't feel my fingers anymore; I
used to be able to feel them, feel my
core, feel the conversation. But now
my body is open, like a show of
organs, an entertainment that will be
closed soon for violating some
The room I stay in is warmly lit
making it so strangely comforting.
I'm not rotting yet but I may as well
be making pillow talk with the
reaper. All there is to hear is the
silencing crickets and my lasting
gulps of air. I turn into a holy thing
made of lace and bones, untouched
in the bed.
Cristine Gostinski Costa is a writer and artist from Brazil who loves the rain and the smell of oranges. You can find her on Twitter @WinterGhoull.