Somewhere across town, the lights go out in a room where secrets are written upon the walls in closets lined with cardigans, hung with skeletons like drapes. A slim bottle of vodka cradled in a pair of brand new Nikes.
False gods are false starts. How clever to seek the end from the outset.
Self-care. Self-reflection. Self-sabotage.
She sinks her teeth in.
Shadows blossom, wither, and fall, well before the stars peer listless into dawn.
At the back of the minds of the people who used to know better but seem now to have all but lost their way, the screaming has stopped and the silence moves its black eyes through the cracks in the fencing.
A house built to crumble into the crooked hands of non-linear fate.
There is wet sand in the shoes set out to dry in the hallway. One hundred miles tread lightly in the dead…
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