Geological Admission of Guilt

When nature becomes your only confessional

I know if I drop right off this bridge, into the ancient river I will sink from the weight of everything lost.

This fleshy pump hurts from the effort of its ongoing work; it is slowly being crushed, encrusted- my heart of stone. In my childhood, I expected all the caves I explored in the darkness would show me the light, a way out.

I would never be lost.

The river would always cleanse me of my innocent sins, start over again, dirt rewarding me with treasures- bones, coins, shells, fossils.

As I got older, I found a collapsed caldera within me, an undiscovered gateway to my demons; my very own private road straight to Hell.

A volcanic eruption of decisions, compromises, excuses carried away all my tender flesh in the magma flow, forming an igneous crust around this smile, this laugh, an ancient block to any tributary tears.

I gave offerings filled with bullets, blood rusting the water, their iron feeding the secret god of slaughter to this river.

My way to Hell was opened wide, my every step still cooling beneath my heels.

And yet, I still feel the pull of mud and water, on nights like these.

Erosion is a kind of release and I might not sink but dissolve, sediment unsettled, mingling with the bones of all those dead; my soul given its only natural way to absolution.

For now, I will let the rain work on me, I will not move from here for hours

or maybe years, letting rivulets slowly reveal my remaining remnants of human flesh.

Note: This piece is about a fictional character I am writing about in a Southern Gothic story in progress. And my fascination with geology. Hopefully, I will publish that story sooner than later. But haven’t we all felt our insides reflect what we see in nature sometimes?

You can find my Medium profile here: https://jenadriftinaseaoftrees.medium.com/

Thank you for reading!