exsanguinate | issue 3.1 excerpts

volume 3 issue 1

It stretches higher and farther
its efforts meaningless
its trail erased as quickly as it appeared
how much higher and farther will it travel before realizing
it has accomplished absolutely nothing?
Until the end
there is no end

[untitled] - david seleme

A smile,
a sound,
one moment, one person,
and time begins again
and again with the reddish-hued
highlights of her hair.
The sounds of glass being dropped
in the back room
heralds the birth of the universe.
Cursed is the one who experiences
the rushing river of time,
the moving onward, never pausing,
the spinning of the earth
beneath one's feet.
Cursed is he, craving the moment's relief that are the blessed distractions of lust.

I am starving --
so hungry that I can neither see nor walk straight --
but I take the last of my meager food allowance
and buy a couple of fuck-me-up songs.
Like a junkie
willing to sell her body to a pusher for a fix,
I drop the wad of paper and change on the counter
and snatch the box out of clerk's hand.
I stumble out of the store
and get in my car.
I fumble with the wrapping
carelessly shove the disc onto the clip
and clumsily snap the lid 
shut.
I place the player between my legs
and hold it with my thighs.
I am the human shock absorber
in every sense of the idea.
There will be no skips
no chokes
no blanks
on this ride,
my favorite ride,
a ride to hell.
I peel out of the parking lot
and scream into traffic.
In no time I am on the expressway.
There I rest
at the calming speed of seventy miles per hour,
listening --
the feelings tug on me,
the madness rushes me,
the suffocation sucks me inside.
I am suspended,
intoxicated,
holding my breath,
unaware of the pavement,
unaware of the other drivers,
unaware of my own body
shaking
and quivering
uncontrollably.
I cannot see through the blur of my tears;
I don't want to see anything
except your face.
I wonder what you think and feel when you listen to this very same song,
I wonder if you are capable of loving me as I love you -- 

I wonder if I will be pretty after the reconstructive surgery necessary
to put my face and body back together.
They pry open and peel back the metal
to pull what's left of me from the wreckage.
I must be broken in a thousand pieces:
covered in a sticky warm red that I think is my own blood,
wrapping and twisting about myself like a pretzel,
and the discman -- still playing -- fused into my flesh.
I am one with the song
and the song has now become me.
I cannot move my fingers or my toes.
They lay me on the ground.
The broken glass crackles gently under my dollar-plus-a-nickel weight.
Passers-by gasp.
I can see their faces behind rolled-up windows
like ghosts trapped inside moving television sets.
As I go into shock
and begin to die,
I can feel nothing
but the ambulance technician stroking my mutilated hand.
I imagine that it is you
apologizing for not calling me sooner
begging me not to leave you
telling me that you love me.
I open my mouth to say my final words
but blood spills out instead.
My eyes grow wider
and I hope that this will let them know I have something to say
but they ignore me as they attempt to save my life.
What a shame it would be if I died without my last thoughts recorded.
What a shame it would be if I died 
and you never knew
how important it was
that you find the time in your ever so prioritized schedule
to hold me for a few minutes
stroke my hair
kiss my forehead
and tell me it would be okay.
I would have believed you.
Really,
I would have...
but now it is too late.
I force my shattered fingers to curl around the attendants hand.
I force him to look me in the eye.
I force the words.
"I don't know why I loved him," I gurgle.
"It's going to be alright, ma'am; 
you're going to be alright," he replies.
Even to the last seconds,
lies.

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