The Anatomy of Rust
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.
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First published in Stripes Literary, May 21, 2025.
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"Rust is hunger with no mouth" - love this line. And suddenly rust becomes everything in our lives that consumes us.
Eloquent existentialism. Something so common is so profound. And perfectly titled.