Within another sugar skull skeleton, I can’t fit in my closet, my brain almost calls the Holocaust a glorious counterpoint for philanthropy. Thinking I’m an opportune moment, an allegory for the afterlife, a door with a greasy hinge, but sounding like a least favorite record spun reverse or you crying over my cell phone. Not a tree rattling but your bones are a breath of fresh air quantum-leapfrogging stale spaghetti onto my wall. This serves as an icebreaker to a water burial of me, of me, of me, not me, but petulant petals of my falling shadow, not me. Put the dying grocery store roses in a vase of me. Evaporating and forming into the type of paranormal folk I don’t believe in, singing tuneless songs about how, as far as straight lines are concerned, it is better to sit still than to walk backward.
John Maurer is a 23-year-old writer that writes fiction, poetry, and everything in-between, but his work always strives to portray that what is true is beautiful. He has been previously published in Claudius Speaks, The Bitchin’ Kitsch, Thought Catalog, and others. @JohnPMaurer