Suicide Gene Therapy

I believe that the honey-coated afternoon bled unto their eyes. With reckless arms and trampling feet they beckoned to be followed by whoever was behind. Provisional senses putrified to the core at 25 years after all. 60,000 B.C. had no shoulders to suffer on. It had splinters for the soles and parasites to twist and flush the insides. It had fauna who would not forget to savor a carcass. And what bizarre inflections were these? The sight of a little marauder about aimlessly with stone in hand, deep in the yellowish specter of first light. Had he been in darkness before this? His image like that in the murky waters. A windfall of half-merciful fragments dashed their path: warmth, song, and raspberry awe. Chemicals with feelings too true. Products of the sadistic game that all beings play upon the rough, sharpening claws, sharpening immunities, and on one pressure point, sharpening minds. Steadily painting a brain. A brain chosen to know that all will end the same, regardless. Steady, they traversed, not as friends of this world but as hawks waging their tomorrow against it. No author, but the syntax precisely etched in carbon and nitrogen. Sharpened and sharpened until they saw. Then they sharpened their spears sharper and sharper upon having seen. They stood, with chests. Zenith above revealing only a hollow aperture like the gashes held onto. They looked down at their hands and asked, “What are these for?” Then they dug their pus-filled fingers through the oily flesh and bones of fish. They bent at the tendons but they ran. Their silhouettes cutting against the tall grass. In time, their throats were impaled with black. The sort of sharp black that finds a home there after leaving the body of a dead child. How slight their inner fire seemed then. “These animals no longer have throats, let’s wear their horns.” “Let’s worship this red sky,” he must have said to the female he bred with.

I believe in the cold lashes of rain against their skin. I believe that they lay curled in the fetal position begging their intestines to forgive them. I do believe this. So I loosen the blade pressed against my wrist. Curse my frailty. And know that as this arrow of time forever threatens my spine, I carry their story in every cell of this body.

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