She removes the silver instrument from the wooden drawer, contemplates the scent of blood and sage. The dark sliced moon is ringing high and hollow as a bell in the tower of the midnight sky. Shaky hands. She shivers though it is not cold. She doesn’t want the fear of falling she wants the high of flight, although any kind of movement feels like only a fantasy now. The screaming went on for so long she cannot remember anything else but the deafening sound. The way it slammed through her over and over like heavy footsteps running. In the ghostscreen of past lives, a soft pale hand moves in and out of the surface of the water which separates tenderness from time. There is a black hole where eternity comes from. There is a beginning even when you do not know where to begin. She drags a blade across the skin. It would be romantic if it weren’t so clearly happening. Mist along the meadows in bathed glow. All the beauty she will never know, slides through her hands like sand through a sieve. It’s funny to think she was once young enough to do some real damage but after him, she was never quite the same. Never quite herself again. An empty swing set in the dark. A mouth, chainlinked. Brittle white lace in a satin box above the attic stairs. The fire in her heart has grown cold and burned out. A single candle in an empty room. Sometimes a ritual helps. Sometimes you need to shut the door. Somewhere behind the static, the universe folds back into itself. Normalize ending a thing when it’s over. Quiet down to save yourself.