THE ANATOMY OF RUST

Felix Eshiet

Rust does not run. It creeps. A stain in the corner of a blade, a thin scab on a door hinge, an invisible hole on a metal sheet. First, a speck. Then a wound. Then the whole thing crumbling on its grip. Rust is patient. It does not crack like glass or snap like bone—it gnaws, slow and still, peeling metal into dust. A lock sticks. A railing bends. A roof forgets how to hold. By the time you notice, it has already won. The bite too deep, the damage set. Touch it, and it stains. Leave it, and it spreads. Rust is hunger with no mouth, ruin with no hurry. It lingers, red and ruthless, feeding on what was built to last.

Author Bio: Felix Eshiet is a Nigerian writer and Efik-Ibibio poet

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Stripes Literary Magazine began in 2020 and has become a home for un-categorized, unhinged and defiant work of art. We are especially dedicated to beginning and emerging creatives from all over the world.