I hated so much in my life and still became something beautiful when I died.
Here, slotted in the rock, I flow out. I’ll erode what’s underneath me
until it curves like a body again, until I can feel again.
I still remember the sensation of my arms, tied to the bony horns
of that bull, I called her “Anti” because she reminded me of
Antiope, with the big nose and fat calves rippling from blackened feet.
I was slung across Anti’s face, spine compressing, navel flexing outward.
And they beat my legs through my robes; sometimes they missed because of
Anti’s blind thrashing. I died on top of Anti, and I melted into water.
They beat me like I beat Antiope, which they had never seen, but
some feeling in their soul drove them to my same anger.
I hated so much in my life, but when I died, I lived on
through the flow of the world and the water. There was so much breath
in the water. So much oxygen I felt like I was punctured from the inside.
Anti bent down to drink from me, drenching my abandoned rope.
I was so horrible, I believe, and I was still rewarded with beauty—
isn’t that everyone’s worst dream?
Emily Clara Jarecke is a young writer from the Cleveland area. She enjoys taking photos on her aging Nikon camera, listening to rock music, and playing the drums.