P.S. If I were a horse, they'd have shot me by now.
It's as true as true is plain. The framework of my body is failing too soon, Roman life expectancy catching up fast. Every inch is a painful crack of bone, release of pressure that will be back too soon, and no relief found in the breakage.
It began with my heart-assisted beating at 3 years old, a hole in my heart l would eventually grow out of. I'm a lucky one, me; tiny pink pills every night so that my body does not smother me while I sleep. And now I have a shiny yellow metal walking stick and my knees creak like an old rocking chair. They want to check my blood. It's low in iron.
I'm prone to fainting, forced shutdown of my walking rented corpse.
I am rotting already.
My brain does not work either. It's backwards. I cannot survive this modern world of noise and rush without trying to drown me inside out. There is a war raging on my spirit–mutiny, the enemy within. I crackle like TV static, breathing or walking.
Maybe I should have been a horse.
Relieved properly, eternally. It's the moral thing to do. Misery, put out.
Saskia Müller
Saskia Müller (she/her) is a twenty-one-year-old writer from East Sussex pursuing a history and creative writing degree. Her work has appeared in Alien Magazine, Yafeh Zine, Hot Pot Magazine, and more.
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