2026 February 01, Pick - A - Title, Vol 55 -, Sponsor: Edward Ibeh
The clock has decided to melt its hands, pouring liquid seconds into the teacup of a ghost. My bones are made of spun sugar and whispers, snap-cracking like dry twigs in a January wind. I am a house built of stained glass, holding my breath in a thunderstorm. See my shadow? It is unraveling at the edges, becoming lace, becoming smoke. The mirror shows me a portrait painted on water, constantly blurring, always just about to break. I walk on a tightrope stretched over a velvet void, balancing a drop of mercury on my tongue. At night, my teeth turn into sand: And my hair grows roots into the pillow. I hold onto the edges of the bed, afraid of dissolving into the wallpaper, fearful that a butterfly’s sneeze will scatter me into the dark, forever.
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