Wednesday, June 29, 2011


A door has formed in my chest.
It’s made of skin,
dried like jerky,
with a knob of bones,
chilled porcelain.
The door is locked, for now.
Loud thumps, a banging that echoes
like a roar through
my underwater caves.
The path is sealed,
sewn tight,
kept back from the open air,
left to fester and mold,
to grow a lining of sharp edges
like a sprinkle of jagged glass.
But, when it opens
and the sun peeks in,
the creature shaped from humid pillows
from swallowed words
from burning smiles
will roll out,
a hairball of regret.

About Valentina Cano: Valentina Cano is a student of classical singing who spends whatever free time either writing or reading. Her works have appeared in Exercise Bowler, Blinking Cursor, Theory Train, Magnolia's Press, Cartier Street Press, Berg Gasse 19, Precious Metals and will appear in the upcoming editions  A Handful of Dust. You can find her here:

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