Wind Chills

Small wrinkles in the linens. Foretell of potent switches. Broken teddy bears and empty pajamas. Stir the notion. Of tomorrow. Small drops of blood in a vast ocean. Diluted. Lost.

Wake up! The ghost shouts in her head. As she falls back to sleep. To resume counting the little pigs. Whose houses have been blown down.

I'm just waiting for a suitable moment. To tear that ladder apart. I'm just too fascinated by the needle hanging from her arm. To call it what it is. This fairy tale sick with skin. Burping from inside her cure.

It's better. But only because. I don't listen anymore.

Parenthesis. In this fists of impotent gods. That's all we are.

I wait for the winter to leave. I wait for years, but it never does.