And They Are Never My Hands

By: A. Readick

I dreamt last night that I was an anglerfish. I was swollen and rough – a small, dim bulb dangling between my yellow eyes. I lived where the pressure of the water is thick – where there is no light or living. Months go by where I do not meet another creature. It’s black and cold, endless like outer space. I exist, but existing doesn’t matter. If I weren’t here, no one would know the difference. And then my liquid gills disappear and I’m being smothered by my own atmosphere. I’m drowning in something I can no longer breathe – I’m waving my sharp fins but I’m alone and it’s dark and letting the water and salt fill me up would be so easy.