White Blood Cells

the edge was subtle. until it wasn't. by that point no one cared. broken sticks and sober ladders. the awkward geometry of afterward.

purple dresses with missing zippers. her voice all right angles. tomorrow comes in buckets of skin. a feast of parasites and parabolic panic.

penetrating the seasons. in small strokes. a crisis of moments. the greedy assumptions of touch. like a relentless pendulum. counting down to a change that doesn't come.

the small numbers swell. deflated balloons float carelessly into their destruction. practical tyrants carve ladders in the snow. circumstance continues to paint by the numbers.  we gaze above, but continue our path below.

a curious submission. assembling our sticks as we do. into the monsters within. a ludicrous endeavor. to find a skin for these empty bones.