top of page
Th Loving Dead by C.T. Madrigal






my atoms may redistribute a million times. some will re-emerge in grass, or a rock, or the shell of a chicken egg. maybe, one day, some will swim in ejaculate—fighting to be an integral part of a person again, perhaps the fingernails of a girl who types for a living. but even then, she’ll be completely unaware that the  invisible atoms of her chipped nails were once a part of the man who’d had these thoughts.


bottom of page