even the little stones still leave a bruise.
we don't go as far as we used to since we've gotten older.
it only takes a brief downpour to fill those shallow crevices. all that sediment rises to the surface.
we gather our numbers. prepared to solve for null. we shake our empty cans. and startle at the silence.
the toad waits as the flies come to him.
all our purple screams and yellow shrugs churn against the canvas of our hurt.
every breath a lie. every word a treason.
sometimes it's the little cuts that bleed the most.