Somewhere across town, the lights go out in a room where secrets are written upon the walls in closets lined with cardigans, hung with skeletons like drapes. A slim bottle of vodka cradled in a pair of brand new Nikes.
False gods are false starts. How clever to seek the end from the outset.
Self-care. Self-reflection. Self-sabotage.
She sinks her teeth in.
Shadows blossom, wither, and fall, well before the stars peer listless into dawn.
At the back of the minds of the people who used to know better but seem now to have all but lost their way, the screaming has stopped and the silence moves its black eyes through the cracks in the fencing.
A house built to crumble into the crooked hands of non-linear fate.
There is wet sand in the shoes set out to dry in the hallway. One hundred miles tread lightly in the dead heat of a summer’s night. I have seen her body move like the ocean. I have seen her, she glows in the dark.
Never judge another until you’ve worn the soul right thin.
They will not tell you about the danger because you have kept the press of the winds against the cliffs inside of you still. They cannot tell you anything when the blood is a red rushing river in the blurred ears of your veins.
Come, see. A sin is an injury. It is an angel’s hairline fracture along the broken limb of grace. A rupture; a break in the relationship you had with the person you thought yourself to be but never quite could hold on to long enough to make it to the other side.
I can see you through the waves of heat, swerving like a highway drunk. I will burn every bridge down to its terrible bones. Swallow the match myself and walk away.
The sand on the beach is cool and smooth as it is gently washed out to sea beneath a ghostly moon. Hushed, the shell of a man in his hollow heart. Jaw set. Hell bent. Listening.