What?

What?

Was it breaking through?

Hope, the thin argent splinter under skin.

Was it escaping?

A sigh gone feral in the cage of ribs—

Or was it an opinion that screamed behind the ladders of your mouth?

Was it reaching down?

That old amalgam: wrath and melancholy,

gulped back again because someone was an asshole?

Yes. It had begun its small insurrection,

some famished semaphore beneath the blood.

But:

Was it trying to get your attention?

Was it opening something?

Perhaps it wanted to open your legs

or unlatch the ossuary tucked behind your sternum,

or gnaw some third door that has no hinge at all.

Or was it only your throat, speaking a language it hadn’t been given yet?

Marni Fraser

0829|2026

V:XL PM

An Aperture Adjacent by Marni Fraser | 2026