my fingerprints by Laura Swift

The Moulder's Palms.


I hear a crack.
I look to the ceiling through blurred eyes. All I can focus on is the tiny spider pattern of
broken paint sprawled within the 1cm² of the upper left corner and I let myself wander as I
imagine.
I try distract myself from the salt water taste in my mouth, the lump in my throat and my
hollow torso by imagining the creation of life from destruction; the spider splits into two,
exploding into a million new babies that form trails of new carnage across the ceiling. As the
paint chips off I see the ghost path of a delicate silk web fall down to the floor. I think to
myself;
'If I can find beauty in this then I could create an enduring, incorruptible optimism through

delusion.'

The spiders fork their path, signalling me to make a choice; to be happy or unhappy, or in
other words to be sane or insane.
It's then that I hear a noise that shocks me out of my trance and I blink through my tears to
focus on the shrinking spider, back in it's corner. I panic as I hear another crack that pulses
through my ears. It's so loud that I feel the vibrations in my throat. My heart beats. Half
beats. It's struggling to to pump through the leak. Pumping twice as fast to try and make up
for it's loss. The pressure building, building and splitting further and I grab my chest in
desperation to save myself and my breaking heart.
I have the overwhelming urge to rip into my own flesh so I can squeeze the hearts cracks
back together like play doh; but it seems everyone but ourselves have the ability to mould.
With every one, imprints are left from its various encounters and its shape changes forever
and constantly to fit into its new moulders palms.
I succumb to my bodies wishes as I allow myself to choke on my tears with my supposed
'love muscle' betraying me; spiting me for letting it's endeavour get away from me. I fall to the
floor with my heart in my throat, pounding and soaking in a puddle of my own tears.


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(C) Laura Swift 

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