July, 1913 Annie Cao Honorable Mention, International Young Writers Prize, Poetry

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Lately I’ve imagined prettier iterations of

my body turning cold: gleaming pearlescent,

floating quietly towards the shoreline. Kneeled

before a bird’s nest, cheekbones dressed with

blood. One night, I found myself lovelier than

ever, torn to pieces all over the bedroom floor.

Something is flickering in and out of sanctity,

set aquiver beneath this vicious midsummer

stasis. In the dark, the slow burn watering like

mother-of-pearl, and I pale daintily as the days

slip by. My youngest sister says I’ve been talking

in my sleep, that my hair has started to smell like

rosemary and crematoriums. I want to tell her

about the things I’ve seen: animals split open,

smeared empty on pavement; the girls they found

bloodied, halved, laying still against grassland

or riverbed. The truth is, dearest, that I can’t stop

thinking about slaughterhouses: a daughter stumbles

into darkness and re-emerges as slivered lily, red mouth

tilting open towards the skies. In feverish reverie,

I make a fool of girlhood—butcher my sisters,

cut off my hands, muscle the crimson armistice into

something unholy. I leave the wraith empty-handed,

weeping on its knees.

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[av_one_half]Annie Cao is a high school writer from Colorado. Her work is forthcoming in The Kenyon Review & The Apprentice Writer, & she has been recognized by the National Scholastic Art & Writing Awards, the Patricia Grodd Poetry Prize, & Ringling College, among others.[/av_one_half]