MY SHINING DEMON by Jennifer Brown • Cleaver Magazine
No, you are not my shining demon— You’re the god Rimbaud wrote of, right? While lambasting the men of his time, they set us at your feet or you at ours when we were at school, when we thought ourselves gods, in the cold halls, lost, unknown, longing ourselves into flight. I had been to the city of the powers, the city of Père Goriot, and “Our Lady”, but that was no longer in my mind, none of it. I would run off soon; a place was made for me, he was young, his fingers, they hesitated, they curved upwards, I rushed to the street. When I got home I knew I was with child. How could I sleep. My mind was water, the sea.
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