by J. Bradley

 

I don’t know why my boys have never asked me where my old body went when I became what I am now. It’s like they expected this to happen, all my wrongs and sins poisoning me until my old body could no longer contain who it really thought I was.

The day it happened, I woke up to my husband screaming until he breathed enough of me in to melt all over the sheets. In my grief, my new body corroded the floor, sending what was left of my bed and my husband down into the kitchen. To their credit, my boys haven’t fought each other since and have done their best to take care of me.

I’ve tried to turn his new body into my old body. I’ve tried to form a head, a neck, a torso with arms and legs, and the new body refuses to listen. I ask my new body to bring out my old body from wherever it’s hiding it and I only get denser and greener when I’m sad.

My boys won’t listen when I ask them to let me go, even when I promise to climb as high as I can into the sky until the air is thin and I’m no longer what I am but they’re afraid of a plane flying through me, the skin of the plane peeling off until it becomes a plummeting coffin; they won’t let me go no matter how much I keep hurting them.

 

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J. Bradley is the author of The Adventures of Jesus Christ, Boy Detective(Pelekinesis, 2016). He lives at jbradleywrites.com.

 

 

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