Tiny Boulders

Tracing the stone. Oedipal pencils draw. Savage conclusions to a dying art. Feeble gods in chambers of lead. Sink to the depths of her stare. Like she is listening to everyone at the same time. And cannot hear the words she's said.

For the first time.

And the last.

Derelict accusers fail their burden. Acquittal a more fitting punishment. Both for the stone she swallowed and for the lump it left in her throat.

The bed blinks at the back of her head. Cold and fluorescent. Stuttering to life in sermons too loud. Melting creamsicles roll down her wrists. Just as she remember it.

When it was cold, but sweet enough that it didn't matter.

She drags the stone. No longer able to lift it.

Still it goes with her.