little rabbits outrun the hungry foxes. in an obtuse world. where everything is too bright.

cut by the sharp corners. as they wnader through their mazes.

our diseases choose their symptoms from deep inside us. 

atoms collide and their reaction undoes us.

slender matchsticks aborted by the flame. a curious inertia among the intensity of our choices.

the race is run. the finish lines crosses us. all wilted storms and frozen fists.

gravity panics. and our wings briefly grip the wind.

brave rabbits lick the foxes' fangs. shocked to taste their own blood. 

the cold tells its stories in simple conceits and shattered skin.

a lonely metaphor of grief in a cacophony of narcissists.

all the buttons are made of why. all the zippers forged from when.

we press the needles through the fabric. but the holes are too deep.

the pillows wear their dented grins.

the sheets fumble with the stitches at the backs of our necks.

we solve each other with melted candy and rusted hammers.

looking for the truth in all the wrong places. 

 the truth is a broken smile. no words. only the dilapidated boxes that we never open.

the truth is a series of assassins. who often cripple, but seldom kill.

tender lies sell their medicine. to the desperate and the loyal.

time is the soiled bed where all those monsters sleep. waiting for us to wake them.

time is the stranger in the mirror that wears our face.

delicate skin flirts with the empty math. of what's inside. 

the truth ties its knots in our skin. 

and we spend our whole lives trying to undo them. 

 kettles on the stove bargain with the flame.
the curious temperament of skin solves for nil.

the contents come to a boil.
and we let it scald us.

kittens in a broken basket.
just learning to use their claws.

the forest sows its shadows.
heavy lanterns strain our resolve.

keys linger in their locks.
rooms better left forgotten.

whisper invitations
impossible to ignore.

familiar strangers arrive at our doorstep.
starved after years of waiting.

dirty dresses in our closets
casually wear us again.

time has simple rules. but touch is more complicated. a long hallway dense with doors we must unlock. 

we spin on gravity's slender strings. a catastrophe of atoms barely connected by the diminishing forces of circumstance. 

skin has obvious parameters. but want possesses infinite variables. 

we dance on the decaying inertia of arrogant choices. a cascade of expectation erupting. 

every window shattered. every room corrupted. 

we push the edge away. tumbling embers negotiate the abyss. 

the flame is paused. 

we slither into the dicarded skins. and remind the imposters. 

that we were alive once.

if only for an instant. 

slouching utopias scour our grief.
for the tenuous poisons that 
that once made us whole.

we balk at the simple mechanisms
that grunt out our lives.
while crippled time machines throb in our throats.

stubborn actors in masks we can't remove.
no more subtle grins to pretend we can be saved.

missing words fret their price.
as we auction off the remains of our skin.
every touch more fragile than the last.

hollow stages quiver beneath
the weight of our discontent.

bitten apples turn sour
waiting for us to taste
how sweet they once were. 

 the numbers travel through our skin. the quiet violence of apathy.

we chase the distance. exhausting every step.

the truth doesn't know our names. and doesn't care.

the solvency of love is a brutal expectation.

small puzzles scatter their pieces across the whole of our lives.

smothering us in broken images.

the math is so simple that we fail to believe it.

when cracked windows lose their purchase on our shame.

 brief collisions swallow our voices.

empty shoes abandoned in the doorway.

drowning in the footprints left behind.

our desires discipline the math.

orphaned numbers in puzzles made of skin.

little fires chasing strays.

we count out loud. daring anyone to listen.

rabid fools tamed by inertia.

sharp pieces of candy sweet enough to bleed for.

fleeting orbits determine our trajectory.

stung by gravity.

we embrace the fall. 

 the grin of gravity is vast as we tease the fall. overconfident in our plastic wings.

only the sky knows what we look like from above.

frail gods in heavy robes. biting at the wind.

the truth is a curious venom. gently peeling away calloused skin.

time is a fickle mistress. draped in her soiled sheets. singing her broken songs.

the journey is a paradox. how close we come is the same as how far we've gone.

the apex is a simple lie. a forgotten name that still lingers at those abandoned intersections.

we see everything. and nothing. orphaned arbiters of empty staircases.

only the bottom knows what we look like from below. 

cold fingers grab at the wind.

paper skin bends helplessly against time's blunt edges.

little cuts overwhelm what remains of their shape.

eyes keep count. fingers press the curtain.

a brief shudder of clarity preceeds submission.

their machinations all spoiled meat and dirty windows.

tempting strangers discard their disguises.

the stairs tremble. as we make our way down.

stranded in the perpetuity of change.

no one left to remember the brittle thrust of our anticipation.

shouting at the math.

because our arithmetic has betrayed us.

the machine is ample savior when cleft in the treble of contempt.
as stilted orators infiltrate our thoughts.

wizened hunters unfold their blades.
as the cold cuts its questions into their math.

how deep does the forest dig into their steps.
how earnest is the conviction of consent.

the distance is a vicious measure of the truth behind our faces.
a curious confluence of tearful clowns and laughing strangers.

time laps at the blood.
as much a bandage as it is a weapon. 

forgotten strangers suckle at the scars on our wrists.

the crumbling skeletons of rancid memories.

time is a mysterious drug. growing more powerful the less that we have of it.

a dull blade that scrapes our skin despite our petulant defiance.

we were alive once. in the thimble of its hysteria. wild prey kicking at the hunt.

voices crushed under their words. puppets strangled in their strings.

feral beasts. destroyed by the simple arithmetic of touch.

simple gestures taste our flesh.
the fickle grammar of anticipation
tallies the coins we've thrown into the well.

a grief carefully spent
on spoiled meat and fractured bones.
continues telling its stories to the cinders of consent.

the voice is a kingdom. the mind is its war.
time paces under our skin.
both narrator and protagonist.

we grip the curtain.
with broken fingers. 
devastated to discover the illusion.

shallow cuts barely bleed.
tender words fail as bandages. 
until everything is stained in red.