This glass. It fogs with breath.The air. Hot, rancid—suffocating.
My efforts to reach you flag and you cannot hear my wails. Days, centuries, eons—seconds; enclosed within this unforgiving curve, they are the same.
I heave myself until I’m bruised; beat the sides until I’m bloody.
It still holds—this glass.
Perspective distorted, reality clouded. Do you see threads of me still, or are they obscured? It’s been so long.
This jar—I curse you for having kept me. But sometimes I remember: I’m the one who crawled inside and I’m the one who closed the lid and I remember—you punched holes so I could breathe.
I remember—for a fleeting instant—as you forget me.
How then shall I escape? So bitter the irony, once I thought safe this mausoleum to myself. This glass.
M.F. Wahl is a troll who lives under a bridge. Her hobbies include cooking billygoat fricassee and occasionally putting the nonsense in her mind to paper.