Shortcake

by Lucy Watson

I’ve learned that death has a way of breathing new life into old wounds.

Ever feel like the universe is some greasy forty-year-old online troll living in his mother’s basement with his Cheeto-dusted fingers hovering the keyboard, just waiting for the perfect time to fuck with you? Yeah, me too.

My soul reaches out for something to grasp onto, anything to keep it from sinking into this muddy swamp. A tear breaks free as my soul finds only air.

I’ve read that feelings of déjà vu mean you’re on the path to fulfilling your destiny.

The soul can’t breathe without hope. Torture is to keep living after your soul has died.

We never really know how the rushing water of life will shape us, or what landscape it will leave behind.