a tick on the hilt of our sword. gorging on the blood of our triumph. a syringe in the vein of our darkness. whispering truths i'd thought dead.
we wasted years pretending to know. who we were. would become. chasing a reason that doesn't exist.
churning inside our boxes. waiting for the poision to deploy. simulatenously alive and dead.
struggling to differentiate.
idling in our indelible fictions. anxious for the world to catch up.
winter stalled on the last page.