The Lingering Price

numbers and flesh. the practical hysterics of gods and men. she traces the path. with broken pencils. content to draw regardless. shattered images more than motivation enough.

quiet monsters plague her fairy tales. too soft to kill.

the random claws. the heavy fangs. like desperate clouds. bursting with rain. condemned to the desert.

the villains rarely have names. the heroes seldom have faces. the world is a brilliant chaos of ringing phones and hollow epiphanies. stout syringes overflowing. with impotent heavens. dusty atoms with their tails on the time machine. fucking fractions of each moment.

farther than we were. closer than we've been. i found her in the future. obvious angles firm in their ink.

more lost by simple maps. the cold geography of flesh. measuring distance too literally. tender wolves ruled by their fangs.

the ugly paradox of choice. like mental diarrehea. 

every hour daring her to become that stranger in her head. who whsipers of moments. that stick like needles. and break like confessions.