Panic

Corners stalled in the dark. An epiphany of skin unravelling. In stutters and gasps. The simple monsters of men. Defeated.

Orange clouds. Purple sun. Palettes for sale. Open bridges. Force us to wait while the taller ships pass through. The coin. The metal. Servants of suspicion. Wrest the blood from her bandage. To name the wound. Give it strength where there was none. Stretch the string taut and listen. For the whisper. The trembling voice of how. Pricks her. Bland medicine. Makes her sicker. Dilutes the virus that is her. No cure. Only pauses in the voltage.

The lights are pale. The voices are soft. Stages undressing in her head. No actors. Just deflated dialogue.

Eyes in the window. Conversations with the end. Much too loud.