wraith

You cut too hard on my throat muscles:

they divvy up, go loose and wobbling,

skitter until I become concerned

about ‘death by asphyxiation’.

When I was ten I didn’t know

that a body could be locked up tight—

rigid while every joint comes apart

in some short-lived breeze.

The air goes sour

under serpentine weight.

Pressure increases: I’m condensed

into some pseudo precious

stone.

Imagine if someone wore me

around their throat.

KERRIE C. BYRNE is an autistic, queer and nonbinary writer/cat lover living in Toronto, ON. Their other fiction and poetry can be found in The Temz Review, The Hart House Review, and The Specatorial, and they have been shortlisted for the Friends of the Merril Collection short fiction contest. The rest of the time, they can be found working on Augur Magazine as Publisher—or maybe reliving their glory days as an award-winning collegiate a cappella singer in their bathroom. Find them on Twitter as @kercoby!