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CorridorBy Alice Xu QuailBellMagazine.com  I pinch my wrist and watch its palette flick like a light switch, peach-white rotation. Mother closes her eyes, dreams of a morning with no sun. Whispers a nightmare: crash, crashing, crashed. Splinter. Monday boy cracks his cigarette against the corner of a wall, its smoke bones spilled like a body leaning, reclining. He looks my way. I don’t return it. A janitor leaves Father’s room with stained sheets and shit. He stopped wearing a mouth mask, and I wonder if he is used to the smell of falling apart. Mother continues to believe, so she tells me. Fingernails teethed, I tear them off like sunburned skin flakes. #Unreal #Poem #MouthMask #Fingernails #Bones #FallingApart Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter.
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