Travel Size

The last thing I pack before a trip is my soul. I stick my tongue out, peel it off my taste buds, and pull it out from my throat. It burns as snow does, a chain of handkerchiefs with my every memory embroidered all over, with threads pulled from the inside my cheeks.

I place it in my jewelry box and put it on again once I have reached my destination.

But this time I can’t find it. I look and look everywhere I can think of, but nothing.

And I know no one can survive without a soul; I feel its absence constantly, the hollow cave around my heart it has left, the now empty, dried-up veins it used to float through.

There’s nothing else I can do. I sneak into my neighbour’s house, smother him with a pillow, and tear his soul out during his last moments. A chain of black pearls; I swallow it tilting my head back. He dries up like an autumn leaf while my hair and eyes turn teal like his.

But I no longer know my name; all I remember is suffocating as a corpse with purple lipstick holds my mouth open.