I melted down chandeliers. I made a lake of chandeliers, that’s how many I melted down. When I stepped into the lake my body split then dissolved, my particles revealing themselves to be tiny houses. Inside the tiny houses, the tiny sky poked through the tiny windows, like a beak. The vapor trails stretched across it, the result of tiny planes, headed to various tiny destinations. If I am ever put back together, I thought, perhaps we will dance beneath them.
The grass has been replaced with tiny swords. We are adjusting. Everyone has taken to wearing their boots. What caught us by surprise is how bright the world is now. The sun reflects off the little blades, splitting & splitting, making us more of a mirror less of a planet. Personally, this doesn’t bother me. I’ve been looking for an excuse to wear my new sunglasses. Some people say they make me look like a giant bug, but they make me feel like I’m a thousand feet tall. They make me feel like nobody can hurt me, no matter how hard they tried.
Dalton Day is a Pushcart-nominated poet & editor of FreezeRay Poetry. His work has been featured in PANK, Hobart, The Millions, & Jellyfish among others. He is the author of Supernova Factory as well as the forthcoming Fake Knife. He can be found at myshoesuntied.tumblr.com & on Twitter @lilghosthands. He’s absolutely terrified.