wrap my hands/hands up, Night!

but loneliness will always try to surround you, blotting out the exits, just you, and the hungry room. we are so very connected, wires where your hours were, and nothing at all. you work your eyes, and your imagination never blinks: they are so fucking happy. I will never belong. I am crawling.

and you play the game, balling up your hands, refuse that last fucking card, the one that just sunk you.

but how do I get out of this room?

because you look around, at the windows tightly wound, doors are so many months away, and the only light source is them (you used to call them the empty armies, biting on your cheek.) your feet pressed up against the back of the desk, looking out for monsters at the corners of your eyes—you will not escape with your body.

okay, I have: an empty glass, a library full of songs (these playlists are your friends), and the ability to make hope. sure, it is a goal, a mission, a list on notepaper, somewhere in this night. the first step: move your body, move your mind. though you cannot escape the room, with its evil eyes, you can certainly move within.

sometimes you would at least have your cat, because they never leave you alone. and with your cat, and a cup of apple juice (I think a cup of apple juice is nicer than a glass), you are inclined to think the world is a little more brilliant, the smallest crack more.

(but, see, dangerous interludes—people can either save us from ourselves, or jam us back into our box of limbs. we were so close to safety, but now you're scrubbing out the clean worlds of my list.)

this is where you have to fight really quite hard, and it is terrible, but, transfixed, you're just a wasted moth. if you are looking for hope, look away—see all the things crooked in the darkness, recall those happinesses. though you stare at horror, in wrongdoing, you have music—always—music to sear the night, unravel the windows, drag the door into this day.

(my current weapon, armed, is who watches the watchmen? by the prize fighter inferno.)

it is the way you just smile, awkwardly, tumbling outwards, for each time you fought the night, you bore the scar. and when the songs play, the words snare what you hold deep. and when the night rises up, the notes ignite, the colours burst, and this battle calls faster breathing.

what makes us different—our whole unseen world. we fell, scattered, but on the mischief of high winds, we are found, so slowly, we are safe.