she’s prone to lying in dry, cracked riverbeds, clutching her body like a map of how to live forever whose overlapping lines interrupt the flow of her face until she herself becomes a prism.
colors spill haphazardly from her iridescent skin, refilling the river and animating the amplified fossils of amoebic lifeforms they meet along the way. the idle chatter of the new body politic wears on her psychically until it distends the caverns in her abdomen, swollen now with praise and blame and profanity.
she tires of being a prism, longing instead for the two-dimensionality of something like a mirror endlessly reflecting past versions of herself to an indifferent audience obsessed with their own mirrors and their own endlessly-reflected past
selves until a fever pitch is reached and the crowd combusts and what’s left is a thin image implying that the only possible perspective presently and henceforth is third person.
Ryan lives in Wisconsin with a cat who walks around yelling as loud as he can for unknown reasons (because of the language barrier).
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