Pages Torn Out

 the hills spend us in rain showers and spurious winds. out there. alone. that's where we find ourselves. 

in the panic of the intersections. in the hunger of the hurt. chasing ourselves as time ties its knots with our festering ghosts. 

kindness is a luxury reserved for those who can afford it. the rest of us are sometimes forced to be cruel. to protect ourselves. 

the miles carve their expectations in my flesh. but i offer them no blood. 

our truths are a narrow bridge. there's only room to go in one direction.