we resumed our scandal. the fury of intimacy curdling like old milk. voices like pistons. bodies more earnest than touch can negotiate.
time tore out its pages. all angry metaphors and stolen arithmetic.
the paper dolls took off their dresses. and all our words fell to the ground.
the villains discarded their masks. and all our fairy tales tore up their maps.
we had nowhere new to go. and no way to go back to where we had been. orphans caught in the transition between touch and grief.
travelling on our brittle bones. dragging along our remaining flesh.
as our lies all went bankrupt. as truth shook its fist in our faces.
we drew our beginnings in pencil. but our end had already been written in ink.