The Color of Blood

by Mona Kabbani

Those butterflies with their deadly wings fill my heart, my throat, and tear at my insides with sadistic hedonism. I could swallow her whole. I could drink her, fill my very veins with her.

And the thought passes me so sweetly amidst this world-shattering violence: If I am a void, then she is utter totality.

people want arousal. They want something that will push boundaries, a fearless feat. They want transcendence intermingled with a corruption that will leave them impossibly ill. Psychological violation. Awe-devouring humility. Martyrdom! Cataclysms that shake the very ground they stand on. They want to be offended. Do you understand me?”

There is just her, the start of her, and the silly, trivial things that occurred in another life.

And the void. It’s nothing. I thought the absence of everything was the truth of the soul. But it’s nothing. It’s fucking nothing.