We stepped outside the greenhouse and the lights went cold. He reached out; his palm froze against Saturn’s gelatinous ring and pulled away from his wrist like wet paper. I felt the romance leak out of our suicide as I saw the black hole. I punched him in the face.
Jessica Halsey lives in Arkansas and earning a degree in Laboratory Science while she writes books about werewolves and faeries, a well as many strange poems. She loves birdwatching and performing venipuncture. Her spark bird is the Rose-Breasted Grosbeak and her house words are, “Is there blood on the floor?” View all posts by jessicahalseywrites