panic setting in at four thirty in the morning with the moon tracing me like a crime scene
like a child collecting fireflies in glass jars only to realize that they've fallen lightless by morning
sunburnt and weather kissed, tree lines around my wrists
an ocean of syntax
tornado warnings
that the sky bleeds like flesh like the way people bleed colors
that i am more human, more alive than i've ever been before
No comments:
Post a Comment