Tremors

Sorting the thieves. numbers fold in upon themselves. pierced balloons. vomit her thoughts. in a series of wars too small to detect.

Bullets kiss the rebellion. As any lover would. Loud. And sharp. And impossibly destructive. the reproaches of sleep more than welcome.

Her pencil dances. The frantic tango of borrowed skin. her face wears her body. dirty rags play with all the choices she no longer has. The future still pretending to remember people without one.