The crisp winter air falls over the suburbs like the veil of a new bride. We are getting fucked
up to the tune of Canon in D, saturated in despondency. The cream-colored ranunculus
morphed into some kind of forewarning. I got my foot stuck in the pew.
My mother claims I ruined the entire wedding, but this jig was up before it even started.
An absence before the exit, a hearse before the body. The “I do” is a fracture in our well-established bone structure.
The greatest flaw in our belief system is that we might belong to ourselves.
M. Macallan Lay is a creative writer and current MFA candidate. Their work has been featured or is forthcoming in Lavender Lime, Bad Jacket, Litmag, and various college-ruled notebooks littered across her one bedroom apartment. She was born, raised, and educated in Saint Louis where she currently resides. You can find them online @narcotoxxin.
