two hours ago.

you are not a liar, and you are not small.

take that one breath. that's where it started, you felt the thorn. but before it writhes and burns hot, spit it out.

those mornings, that gravity shivers, time sheds its skin, still clinging to the branches.

breathe out in slowness, the wires that run you through. your eyes don't crack, your skin doesn't leave you. and take a sip from your lists, and a bug bite that keeps your thoughts. this was so important, that stills the gun and climbs the wall.

i am a cold stone in morning light, the last thing you threw between us.

and so frustrating to hold a voice but be unable to speak.

and your sutures grow like teeth, you spit them out to be released.

i won't tell you not to be sad, and i won't tell you not to be wrong, but just that i remember you retracing the light across the floor, soft but for cracked lips.

write your own goddamn horror show and live faster than time.