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The Ghastly Sun
The Ghastly Sun Stephen L. Harrison
The sun streams through my early-morning brain, blinding my eyes like the scorched deserts of the world.
Sun God, leave me alone in my grey room, with poverty and torn sheets and the stains previous denied, still on them— the only memory I have of her, the only real memory.
The birds are singing, and I hate them too: noise that disturbs my ruminations, drives me to the brink of what a man betrayed should tolerate.
I prayed last night, really prayed— pleaded, begged, betrayed myself, sold my id, my ego, turned to dust.
Leave me now, world. Just fucking leave me alone.
The Terrifying Sun Stephen L. Harrison
The sun enters my mind early in the morning, blinding my eyes like the hot deserts of the world.
Sun God, leave me alone in my dull room, with poverty and ripped sheets and the stains I once ignored, still there— the only memory I have of her, the only true memory.
The birds are singing, and I dislike them too: sounds that interrupt my thoughts, push me to the edge of what a betrayed man should endure.
I prayed last night, truly prayed— asked, begged, went against myself, gave up my identity, my self-respect, became nothing.
Leave me now, world. Just leave me alone.