A slow death, like daffodils
Mikayla Schutte
i.
There’s a creek behind my mother’s house
That has flooded every summer for the
Last decade or so, and it is there that
I learned how to pick myself apart—not
In the pretty, metaphorical way, but with
Real, medical precision—I carry a scalpel with me,
Damp, rocky soil between my toes as I trudge along the
Bank, I’ll cut out a rib and toss it in the
Water, chop off the lobe of my ear and
Bury it in the dirt, peel the skin from the back of
My hand and set it sailing on the current;
ii.
By the time I make it to the
Pond puddled at the end, my muddled
Reflection is gruesome enough to start a
Grecian love affair—but I do not drown myself at
The climax, I stare and I stare until autumn drought
Steals my lover away—a slow death, a hesitant suckle of
Water into the sky, until the clouds are heavy and the
Air fills my lungs with its wayward intention,
Abandons me with a biting breeze of
Sympathy that leaves my wide eyes watering and the
Diluted mirror of my face bare-boned;
iii.
And so I begin the long walk back to my
Mother’s back door, I begin the
Familial steps and well-worn motions of
Whittling the scalpel into a needle, yanking
Leaves into thread, I pick the
Pieces of me that have sprouted like
Narcissus flowers from the dry, breathy soil of the
Empty bed, and I sew them back on—the birthmark on the
Back of my hip, the bone from the tip of my
Pinky, now clenching at the end of my hand in a
Fist with which to knock, a tooth replanted in its
Socket in a mouth with which to
Smile at friends and fathers and
Dinner dates who ask me if I’d like to share a slice of
Cheesecake—which I'll swallow with a teary, quivering
Promise to drop that piece of myself in
The creek next summer;
Mikayla Schutte is a Kentucky-based writer, earning her bachelor's degree in Creative Writing from Northern Kentucky University. She is a recipient of the undergraduate R.M. Miller Award for Outstanding Fiction Writing, and her work has appeared in Flare Journal, The Writing Disorder, and more.