The night is long. The road unspools before you like dark ribbon. There is no hurry. There is time to say all that needs to be said and do all that needs to be done.
Tell me your story.
I'm here with you, but you don't know it. You feel me like a discordant lullaby, as distant and persistent as the wax paper moon stuck to your windshield. I'm not going anywhere. I won't go anywhere.
Tell me your story. Sing it. Whisper it. Shout it.
It doesn't have to be perfect. I crave the imperfect. Tell me what's buried there under the refuse-- the booze, the pills, the condoms, and all the other souvenirs of the misbegotten piled against a truth so ugly it's beautiful, but it hurts, it fucking hurts so much.
Tell me. Make it hurt.
I want to crawl into your junk heap soul, burrow like a maggot through the vomit, rotten TV guides and bad checks. When I get to the core of you, I will feed, nourish myself on what ruined you, what made you fit for this world and unfit for me and my night. I will never leave you.
BIO: Cami Park's work can be found in publications such as Smokelong Quarterly, Outsider Ink, No Tell Motel, Opium Magazine, Forklift, Ohio, and Ghoti Magazine.
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