flies and honey

by Miles Coombe

The summer was long and coated in flies and honey. It’s pleasantly distracting, although sometimes I dream of strange things. 

Like the day my mother cut my wings off. The sound is always the worst— the way she’s sawing through meat and tendons – the harsh dragging scrape of metal against bone. There is always the taste of vodka in my mouth and when I look out of the window I see a silent corridor of drifting ash. It hurts so much that I cry out to my mother for comfort but then I remember that she’s the one hurting me. I will never forget the wet slapping noise of my left wing hitting the tiled bathroom floor. I’m trying to scream— as she uses her fingers to dig into my flesh to get the last chunks of bone out— but my mouth is full of blood. 

Afterwards I can feel the bandages turning me feral. Strange white fluid is leaking out the scars and running down my back. There’s a homesick feeling inside that makes my jaw ache and for some reason my teeth don’t feel sharp enough. 

I don’t know what any of it means.

M.T. Coombe is a queer multidisciplinary artist living in London. He is fascinated by the idea of modern fairy-tales. He often combines the words that he writes with the artworks that he makes. His writings are based on youth / obsession / loss / memory / dreams / addiction / mental health / folklore and apocalyptic landscapes. Find him at - www.trashprincemusic.com/writing and https://twitter.com/trashprincemuse