The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

Mountain
by Christina Sng

Another piece of my face
Crumbles in my hand.

I must stop touching it—
It will not survive this.

But it is hard.
I forget too easily

When it is foggy,
When it is dark.

I‘ve long forgotten
What I look like.

It has been
Many moon cycles

Since I’ve seen myself
In a mirror or reflection.

When I look down,
My hands are now thick,

Calloused. Sensation is
Muted when I touch.

I remember what it is like
To be human.

I remember how it feels
To touch my once-soft face

And smile
My last smile

As my body slows
And finally sets down roots.

Becoming a mountain
Means I’ll never die,

But I am not
Unbreakable.

Stone can crack.
Stone can crumble.

One day, I will find myself
In ashes,

Along with
Every other mountain

When the world is devoured
By the Sun.

But that is a long time away.
For now, I will think and feel

Without the agonies and
Indignities of a human body.

I will ponder the storm
And endure its every beating.

I will watch humanity extinguish
And vanish from existence.

I will enjoy the art of living
I have long forgotten.

I will regain the peace
I once held in my heart.

Fiction © Copyright Christina Sng
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com

More from Christina Sng:

A Collection of Nightmares

Hold your screams and enter a world of seasonal creatures, dreams of bones, and confessions modeled from open eyes and endless insomnia. Christina Sng’s A Collection of Nightmares is a poetic feast of sleeplessness and shadows, an exquisite exhibition of fear and things better left unsaid. Here are ramblings at the end of the world and a path that leads to a thousand paper cuts at the hands of a skin carver. There are crawlspace whispers, and fresh sheets gently washed with sacrifice and poison, and if you’re careful in this ghost month, these poems will call upon the succubus to tend to your flesh wounds and scars.
These nightmares are sweeping fantasies that electrocute the senses as much as they dull the ache of loneliness by showing you what’s hiding under your bed, in the back of your closet, and inside your head. Sng’s poems dissect and flower, her autopsies are delicate blooms dressed with blood and syntax. Her words are charcoal and cotton, safe yet dressed in an executioner’s garb.
Dream carefully.
You’ve already made your bed.
The nightmares you have now will not be kind.
And you have no one to blame but yourself.

Available on Amazon!