Mellow Drama

This is the device. The sated engine. Formally.

There was nothing to say. Never is.

We cowards at the mercy of this pantheon of silence. We spectres loathing the night that moves us.

It was so real I choked on it. A gag in my mouth as the vomit convulsed. I should've died, but you never do when you want to.

It's a slow process.

There are roads to remember still. And headlights teasing windows. As the night usurped the moments we'd risked.

So indebted to the pain. So socially illiterate.

Everything I know I know because I've kept the splint. Traced the indentations dug as I stubbornly tried to walk on it.

Everything I tried to be knows me now better than I could ever hope to know it. The curtain. The soft gauze that pretends to shelter broken windows from the wind.

Looking out.

Seeing myself in all of them.

No goodbyes.

Just broken nails yearning the chalkboard.

I cry when no one's listening. I cry sometimes, but it won't be heard.