Photo by Julie Coulter
She grew into you while you were still open to rain. When she left you hanging with her left-over straw lovers, their straw dust soliloquies, you hid in a flower pot in a room in the heart of a city facing away from the sun. A woman dropped in every so often to tell you stories. She taught you to wrap up the darkness in neat cardboard boxes. Then she became the source of all light-absorbing absence. You dreamt in ruined colors. You survived until you couldn’t.
About the AuthorKyle Hemmings has been published in Wigleaf, Storyglossia, Elimae, Match Book, This Zine Will Save Your Life, and elsewhere. His latest collection of prose/poetry is Void & Sky from Outskirt Press and has an upcoming collection titled City of Kats from Perpetual Motion Machine. He lives and writes in New Jersey.
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