Stung

stepping stones of glass. fists of clay. the harder they become, the more easily they break.

the rooms are empty. the house is dark. still, the windows are thick with finger painted scars.

time hurries to keep up with our manic pace. a long rope at the end of short chain.

playing with her stories. burnt paper and withering dolls. frail under the weight obvious choices. and the ache of the things we want.

sour is the winter's tit. as we suckle its frozen milk. becoming as cold ourselves. choices pretend to find us. just as we do them.

small clowns bleeding through their makeup. needles without thread. naked enough to chance a taste of heaven. knowing it might be their last.