Member-only story
On Bog Bodies & Ritual
I step over the tub and begin my after-shower ritual. My skin is tight from the hell water I stood under for far too long, so she drinks up the hemp oil when I lap handfuls up my left leg. Slowly, she glistens like asphalt after rain.
I move the rough of my hands against the soft parts of me — gentle-like.
Yesterday, I stood in front of the long mirror, dripping with golden brown. I sometimes dream of diving into a pool of honey hemp.
Today, I think about Ireland. I think of Bog Bodies, the ones back in that Dublin museum. Parts of bodies. Killed. Beaten. Thrown back to Earth. Memory.
I walked through the exhibits with my feet skating over the concrete floor. I was afraid then.
Would the torso without the head haunt me? Or the head with the teeth still teeth? No body; just teeth. Would it chatter in my head as I tried to fall asleep?
When fear turned into curiosity, I decided I could never be a Bog Body. There are more interesting things for Earth to memorialize. Gone are the days when humans are worth preserving.
