Particles

the years wear her. a loose drape. barely enough to cover how much has been spent.

the compulsion festers. an empty revolver. anything else is merely ammunition.

chance arrives stale. and leaves the same. there are dials. and levers. tiny boxes full of diversion. that transform the young into the old. discarded weapons to comfort the dead that can't fit into any grave.

buttons pressed. whisper of surrender. blades bent. keep their shackles silent even as they tremble. it's always about death. the abyss within. that swallows up any echoes which attempt to escape.

it's about repetition. the erosion of skin as it swells against the illusion of intimacy. it's about compulsion. hard stabs of love that leave the entrance swollen and bleeding.

she remembers herself only in the faces of strangers. and wonders if they're forgotten.