Genesis

the foul of decision fills her head. time like salt and vinegar. simultaneously preserves and sours.

the open bridge. she is ready to cross. no waiting for proper footing. or the cold grind of steel interlocking. fingers on the crease of her hips. empty scales weighing the oblivion that befriends. the outside that looks in upon. her paper dungeons. swollen with strange faces that still know.

the math at her feet. grovelling minions. searching the sky for gods that no longer exist. everything arranged precisely. in a long series of numbers. everything except where to begin.