I pulled a soporific thread
of smoke from the tip
of a searing knife
into my nose
with a single breath.
Meters of a braided cord
slithered from my throat
and round an ankle
before I crossed the hand-
thick curtains.
My organs turned to bells
as I opened the arc.
I touched the stones, fingered
the bud, and fell, to be
tugged a-jingling back.
They dragged foot after foot
of a ribbon smeared
with the red calligraphy
of my ancestors from my ear
until I bled to death
and everything was over.
— T.K. Edmond is a Fort Worth, Texas writer, musician, and screwup. T.K. is interested in dramaturgy, beauty and cruelty colliding in Texas, and general conceptualism. Recent work can be found in ZiNDaily, Strukturriss, Abridged, Coffin Bell, and forthcoming in Pidgeonholes.