santa sangre

The mirrors are all smudged, their images slurred and shattered like drunken memories. Neon lights fade slow and burn just as quick, their acid colors searing the insides of my skull as I spiral through the glass labyrinth, thudding against my reflections. Somewhere I can hear the sick laughter of a wheezing clown, moaning about Prozac on the installment plan, laughing and sobbing deep within the bowels of the funhouse. Organs and marimbas and chimes swell through the corridors in ghostly traces. The whole place reeks faintly of weed. I want to crack the panels and crawl out of here in a bloody birth but no matter how hard I beat my fists against them they beat back, mocking me.

Donovan Reyes