Owing to the Scab

Bright angles on the lens steer her vision toward the darkness. She presses the sour to her lips. Convinced it will make everything else taste sweeter.

There is. There are. Depending on whom you ask. An infinite number of us. Each one the same, yet different. Some more broken. Others less. All unaware each other. The infinite distance between each of them too small to measure. We are are always alone. Because they are so near.

The cripple in the stone. As it tumbles down. The muddy hill in her throat. To break the water before it reaches the sand. The awe of repetition. In scars. The spasm of pleasure. In scabs. Torn flowers on their high. The wound revives. Brassy witches suffocated under the weight of their magic.

Breath like pencils. Easily erased. Skin like ink. Bleeds through. The thin slips of paper she puts between herself and them.

Year after year levies upon her its debts. Still she responds the same way she always has. With payments made in flesh.