I strolled along that large corridor whose walls were decorated with portraits: trophies of your love games. You fed on those loves, didn’t you? You overextended. Overextension kills empires. I bet you didn’t think that it could kill real love too.
Every night the fleshless arms of your love games crawl on you like fire ants.
I know misfortune when I see it.
I know it because I am not a saint.
Hope? If there is any left it must be on another corridor.
read her 2019 Spillwords Author of the Year interview here
@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela M)