The Warrior By Nicolette Wong

The violence breathes a cold haze on your face; I brace myself on the moist carpet. The straw lights up as it flexes, floating past my guard in the rhythm of a merry-go-round. I open my hand to receive your long-awaited threat. The lamp has fallen on the floor, a slow glow to your whisper.

Look for the right vein in my neck. You blink. Stab hard and sharp.

I find the purple vein amid the folds of your skin and do as I am told. Then I put the straw to my lips, suck and spit. Listen to the air bursting through the moment when you found yourself lying in the dark, stiff and scared, like a figure cropped out of a soaked picture that had dried. Before the dawning of the abyss you walked a thousand miles, on the lookout for someone to unclog life.

Your heaving rises and I spit—a sour, metallic taste of forever.

Your eyes spin until I grab you in the arms, holding you to the light.

Is that it? you ask.

Yes, that’s it. I say.

© 2011 Nicolette Wong

Nicolette Wong is a writer from Hong Kong. Her writing finds its way around the world, and she blogs at Meditations in an Emergency. She is also on the editorial teams of Negative Suck .

Comments are closed.