layered like encaustic art. Drip the wax over my tattoos and obscure any meaning. The layers, all the layers, down to the bone shimmer through. A collage made of myself. Something shines so deep you can barely see it, but trust me it’s there, like stars buried behind nighttime clouds. Like wild roses growing through a skeletonized ribcage. Like a scorpion in a desert garden. Like a candle melting, its skin draped over itself. AuthorEvan James Sheldon's work has appeared in CHEAP POP, Ghost City Review, Pithead Chapel, Roanoke Review, and Typehouse, among others. He is an Assistant Editor and the Editorial Coordinator for F(r)iction. You can find him online at evanjamessheldon.com.
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