Quinn Martin

Posted on May 28, 2012


Laws of Love

Falling In

Think that they are the sole filament of virtue plucked from the cloth of this plastic underground. Remark upon how her smallest sounds rebound with no lace, naked and real in their absence of decorum; her movements wring mortar from the walls and dip like falling feathers into time, growing and fading and being remembered by air and her tenacity. Want to wrap yourself in his frayed musk edges. Secrete yourself into the air like lovely anthrax. Collect particles of each other cautiously and wear them between your skin and clothes. Let it sink and smooth like aloe. Compose elegies for the crusts of lives lived before the coagulation. Venerate the holiest cats-cradle of human connection that proclaims that you’re adored and upon their insistence (modesty peppering the way), hungrily snap at the perfect frieze of yourself residing in their eyes. Let yourself slide.

Crawling Out

Forget sleeping like a set of nested quotation marks. If spines touch in the night, feel filthy in the morning. Wish that they were vestigial bones, you could cut them clean out and forget that moment of collision. Too late. The lymph has already soured. Third and fourth vertebrates, coccyx, guard them from the other like you wish you could the children. Rather light yourself hand by hand on fire than share a touch, your body a bulwark. Pour your horrible dregs into little cups until each one lingers at a few drops like corrosive lye. Offer them to each other like brutal medicine. One propagates exhaustion. Another, tension strung so tightly you swear you hear the crack of ribs and smell a beautiful burning coming from them like extra salt in the tides of anger. Amp up the dosage. When they match your bid reluctantly, wretch at the familiar astringency caught in your throat. Not those fragments. Like glass, you could never stomach them. Cough select pieces of yourself back up. Dab your mouth covertly.


Repeat, continuing to insist that it’s them them them and never you you you. Maybe get married to someone half mute whose voice you know best when translated over telephone lines. Coexist, but avoid ever occupying the same space. Do kind and empty things for each other until hands and mouths are the predictable flavors of cheap wine and cinnamon. Withhold information at all costs. Consider adopting an alias. Don’t let them start to grow more like you, and you’ll never realize that you’re the only thing you find insufferable.


Quinn Martin is an eighteen year old high school senior living in the Berkshires of Massachusetts. She spent her fall semester of her junior sitting in the girl’s locker room writing fiction and smelling the exotic smells that are found there.

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