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consumption (in contemporary)

i had a twin who was 95% water. a twin who latched its mouth onto my heart and drank me dry. as we popped out of our mother’s womb, it burst on the sharp tiles, and i began to feast on its limbs. my mother told me that for the next few years, i would only drink water with its thumb placed in the water. without my twin, i would have been suspended in an eternal comatose. i lavished in its entrails, pulled at its arteries, fit my head into the empty chambers of its heart. i drank the very liquids that it had summoned out of me as a fetus. i could not exert my surrealist fantasies at a greater price. after i had finished my endeavors into the tendrils of my twin, i threw it into a deep crater in the backyard of my suburban home. the crater was the result of a word alone, a world set in the trajectory of why and what.           we all have amnesia we all are tender.we are as bitter as we are salty as we are a delusion of nature. we are the difficult passions of love, we are together, my twin and i. i eat it just as i eat up myself, my reflection, my future, the metallic going-abouts of life. i hurtle through the universe at eighteen and a half miles a second, my twin sinking itself into my pores and slowly drifting out the back door.


Andy Choi is a high school freshman at the Orange County School of the Arts and currently studies Creative Writing. His poetry has appeared in Imagine Magazine and Inkblot Lit Magazine, and he works as a youth climate activist for the Sunrise Movement along with aiding community literacy programs.

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