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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

stupid law.


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.


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