This sentence is recorded in front of a live audience that wants us to wrestle in the mud pit.

This sentence is protected under copyright law, not for distribution or enjoyment.

 

This sentence is your best friend, the glow of a hand hovering on your back at night when

no one else will, because you are alone and unliked.

Tell this sentence – how does it feel?

 

This sentence is an alien sunbathing for Christ, soaking its skin in a tub of shredded ice.

This sentence eats crushed cheese out of a bag in its bathing suit while the alien says a prayer for you and for it, because this place is hopeless as its skin is purple, wasting slowly to a pale shade of white.

 

This sentence is a mothership, a united faith official that governs every word you speak or think.

This sentence is Big Brother – he always knows what’s best when you don’t. That’s why he’s the big brother. You’ve never had a big brother before.

 

This sentence is your thirteen half-siblings on your father’s side conspiring against you. Yes, you, specifically.

This sentence is the half-sister you always wanted but will never have. She has a life, without you in it – what use does she have for a half-Jewish, half-Native, all-naive girl?

 

This sentence smokes mims in the backseat of a JEEP Grand Cherokee and conceives you, this biggest trip and repetition of all time.

This sentence watches you grow up and into a mind narrated by the Greek Muses with Urania taking the wheel, transporting you to space.

 

This sentence watches you go to school and packs you lunch every single day.

This sentence watches you go to college and listens to your suicidal thoughts and does nothing. You can’t spend your whole life making excuses, after all.

 

This sentence guides your brain as it dances the dance of psychosis. It’s like the dance of life, but it makes even less sense than a turkey waddle as an engagement ring.

 

This sentence isn’t from here. This sentence doesn’t belong.

This sentence will be out in the yard in a second after it doses out your medication.

 

This sentence cannot be translated. It is no longer here.

It left you like everyone has. New phone number. New ego. New body and host. This sentence wants to know – who fresh hell is this? Which person are you? Which version of you wants to learn about this life sentence?


Anastasia Jill is a queer poet and fiction writer living in the southern United States. She is a current editor for the Smaeralit Anthology. Her work has been published or is upcoming with Poets.org, Lunch Ticket, FIVE:2:ONE, Ambit Magazine, apt, Into the Void Magazine, 2River, and more.

July 10, 2018

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