a fragment, intruding

“hey,” i say, and pause.

no response comes, only

a splinter of melancholy

burrowing its way under my skin,

blistering fiery, hitting muscle,

shards of something shattered

aching with alien grief.


“hey,” i say, and pause,

lips stuck to tongue

stuck to teeth.

you ache behind my ribs,

scoop out my insides,

foreign fingers sifting through

the contents of my abdomen

beneath the softness of my stomach.


“hey,” i say, and pause,

as you rub off on my skin,

press against my chest,

pervasive pounding anguish

dizzying my head,

emptying my bones.


“hey,” i say, and pause.

“hey, what do you need?”


and the sorrow swells and sings,

falls through itself, uncontained,

agony spilling through the cracks,

downpour, deluge,

a desolate threnody,

and cries, and cries, and cries.



About the Author


Kieran Rose Pilon is a multiply mentally ill and disabled college student from St. Paul, Minnesota. He studies theatre arts and creative writing, and is now trying to make a name in the indie lit mag scene. His passions (besides theatre and writing) include horror, abnormal psychology and mental illness activism, and his four cats.