by Avra Margariti
In my dream, rabbits
run over my future grave, shivering.
The lilies wilting on my nightstand smell like bloody steaks.
Giant moths land on my chest to feed off my tears.
My breath crystallizes their bodies,
nightmares caught in their membranous forewings,
sweet dreams soured by the secretions of their bodies.
The necrotic patterns on the moths’ backs
like the patchwork quilt we buried my great-grandma in.
It’s times like this, paralyzed by sleep, that I wonder
how the end will come.
The moths don’t give anything away.
The rabbits hop on,
nibbling on the flowers above my sweet rot.
Avra Margariti is a queer Social Work undergrad from Greece. She enjoys storytelling in all its forms and writes about diverse identities and experiences. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Vastarien, Asimov’s, Liminality, Arsenika, and other venues. You can find her on twitter @avramargariti.
