Light Leaks | Katie Clarke
Originally from Ottawa, Katie now lives and writes from Halifax, where she is studying Psychology and Contemporary Philosophy. Her work has been published in Northbound and Notable, Sad Girl Review, and Fathom Journal. When she’s not writing, Katie spends most of her spare time reading, riding her bike, and drinking warm beverages.
Her hands comb the water that is stained with your blood
Foam rifts the shoreline and clings to this slippery hull daylight slipping through masts length becomes distance becomes an ache at the back of your belly, trying to swim upstream in a current that pulls you backwards taking life. Your body, your lips, your words fight for survival with what little ammunition they can strip from your conscience as it aches for inexistence. Women like to die beautifully and you knew the taste of those razor-sharp waves, becoming one of them you took back the innocence drained from your limbs, your face turning one last time to the morning light that still heats the surface in cold blood. The river does not fight your conscience.