mitochondria are powerhouses of the cell but even
youthful skin breaks under the weight of the sun. the rays,
strong and inconsistent, form heat traps like claws that
kill membranes and shred cytoplasm to get to the
inner walls of the nucleus. lysosomes try to digest
nerveless tendrils of light. my body swarmed
with waves of pain and the cells,
i imagine, battle every time i let a
little too much heat in, every time i wear too
little clothes. i can hear the mitochondria scream,
bash against what’s left of the nucleus while the
ribosomes release protein at alarming rates to fill
empty plots where fried vacuoles once lay. i’ve heard
anyone’s body can regenerate every seven years.
knowing i’ll have a body you’ve never touched
almost makes me scream to the clouds; ask them
never to return so the sun can burn every
damn ounce of you left on my body. i can’t
fathom what it’s like to be pure
again but the desire tugs at my soul, is enough to
let the sky scar my skin, enough to
let me feel like one day i’ll be unburied
and whole. i long for an ounce of
purity, of cleanliness in this polluted
atmosphere where i’m forced to breathe what you
release. somewhere there is solace but “somewhere” is still
two years away and i feel your footsteps on the earth.
K.S. Hufford is from the Finger Lakes Region of Upstate NY and traveled to the maple-filled state of Vermont to earn her Bachelor of Science in Professional Writing. Like her hometown, she is small, but she loves to explore and finds strength in writing, friendship, and cats.
