crack the skin of God

By Mea Cohen

I.

I like to think about the ways I can crack my head open. There are walls, of course. But there are also the banisters along the staircase in my building. There is the sidewalk if I fall to it with enough force. There is also the idea of bashing my head into another’s. Something about misery loving company.

II.

I was walking home from work one evening, still hungover from the night before, or really, the morning. I hadn’t gone to sleep. I was thinking about getting high again. I was uncomfortable with that thought. How often should you take stock of your life and evaluate the direction in which you’re headed?

A few blocks from my apartment, I unzipped my skin, peeled it over my head, down past my shoulders, and folded it over my hips. A young girl on the street must’ve been watching me. She started screaming. I wondered if she could see what I’d done in my mind.

III.

I am not a child of God. Not anymore. I am misbehaving. I am trying on sins like costumes. I’m loving the look.

I am not a child of God anymore. He has ripped my name from his book of children. The ones he takes time to look after. I am a jagged-edged shred of paper, dragged along the sidewalk by the current of feet. I lift in the passing wind of shoes, I fly recklessly about, it is so cold.

—

About Mea Cohen

The writer is the Founder and Editor of the forthcoming magazine The Palisades Review and Partnerships Manager for Stitcher Podcasts. Their work has appeared in Five on the Fifth, Passengers Journal, On The Run, and Lighthouse Weekly. Mea received their MFA in Creative Writing and Literature from Stony Brook University, where they were a Contributing Editor for The Southampton Review.