by Luke Bartolo
In the cavity of my chest where my heart once heaved a little potato grows with its own dirt and pea-green tendrils. It needs no light, no food, water, or love; it is a lumpy misshapen nut of self-sufficient choler and birdlimed blood. Grow potato you stunted fucking thing. Shoot out each creeping root between each concrete rib. Do something. Anything. Adumbrate the space left by my beating former self. Let me trickle away like ice under the baleful glare of a triumphant bastard star. Be a plant. And let the meat have peace.
Luke Bartolo is a writer and illustrator living in Western Sydney, Australia. He has written both fiction and non-fiction for a range of publications such as English in Australia, Cambridge University Press’s Checkpoints series, Into English, the journals mETAphor and Teaching History, and the Western Sydney University textbook Charged with Meaning. His writing draws upon history, science, and mental illness.