The way she acts, you’d notice that zippers do exist, latch-hooks
and buttons. No tight pants at her waistline, or tiny specks of light where her eyes should be.
In the right kind of shadow, she could be drinking milk. You might try and open her up
with a drink or two, looking for Seven & Sevens and Grasshoppers, perhaps a password
to decrypt those fetal markings on the glare in her eyes, the tattoos of emotional scars
and fork lines, silver keyholes that collect in the hollows of her metallic limbs.
She is the cobbled remains of old treasures—twisted and tired, a hunger
for man-flesh. A mythology swallowed.
-- Emmanuel Pendola is a senior Creative Writing and Psychology major. He enjoys writing Poetry and reading fiction pieces and is currently trying to use my background in Psychology to create more interesting writing. He hopes to one day write Psychological Thriller pieces.