The Heartbeat of Creation
A.J. McCrae
The blood is never mine, but I wear the crimson stains dripping from my skin, smothering the handles of each tool as I saw bone and sew skin. Remove one limb and give to another. The body must be perfect where humanity is not. Skin enclosing the superior botanical system thriving within.
A final puzzle piece, the heart thrums in my grip, lifeless and yet life-giving. I place it within the ribs and allow the vines snaking through the chest to grab hold. They wrap the organ and squeeze once, twice, red saturating green as the body quakes into being.
A.J. McCrae