Reincarnation of the Godless by Fransivan MacKenzie

CW: Sexual abuse, vengeance and death

Today, you're a warm rabbit

curled up on my lap –

feet hushed and cuddly

like your hands never were.

They were always wandering

around the valleys of my skin,

printing amethyst necklaces

upon earthy flesh. Don't tell.

You were the one who knew how to mark graves

even before the corpse was buried.

I remember

how you branded me yours forever

and I wonder if this lifetime counts.

It still hurts.

You were the one who showed me what death looks like

even before the lungs give up the final sigh.

Now, you yield to my touch.

Dreamy. Like the boy your father

ripped out of your spine at five,

before he sharpened your nails into talons.

You're as quiet

in this moment as I was for a decade,

as if you know how the truth

could end generations before they could begin.

I remember

how you begged me to let go like I once did to you

and I wonder if in the afterlife, you're still crying.

It still hurts.

It looks as if you're mourning

all the strength you've lost as a human,

although you're not aware of it.

I remember

how your funeral reeked of innocent Cornelia flowers

and mine of German perfume and nicotine.

I was there.

Today, I kiss you on the forehead

and deem you beloved,

like you used to do to me

when I was little,

my soul clad with nothing but your sheets.

I haven't forgiven you yet,

not even after the bullet sang of my victory

and the last drop of crimson

had slithered away from the sink

but someday,

perhaps, after a thousand deaths,

someday, I will.

---

Fransivan MacKenzie is a nineteen-year-old storyteller born and raised in the Philippines. She is the author of Out of the Woods, a chapbook of poetry and prose. Her works also appeared in Transition Magazine, The Racket, Jaden Magazine, CP Quarterly Review and elsewhere. Find her on Twitter (@fransivanlights).