we wait for the world to end. each of us sitting on our bombs. dancing to the music of the countdown. we wait for so many things. the sunrise. the snow. the darkness. the cycle. carefully stealing the touch from our fingers.

we scrape the ground. in unison. groaning shovels digging. for a bottom. we never imagined could be buried so deep. it's cold. it's heavy. it's not anything except a choice. whether or not to keep searching. for the things we'll never have. the wanting is all that's needed.

people have a way of recovering. finding. something in nothing. spoiling the game by not wanting to win. only to survive.

but i don't understand people at all.

the lock opens. in fits of consequence. dominoes. nudging. us. toward the nothing. gravity's open fist catching. all the little pieces. sharp and heavy. that we've left behind.

she stretches the arrow. the point becomes. the beginning and the end. and all that's in between. small lies blossoming. the whole world our porch light. and still it's dark.

the strays move through her garden. blood and teeth defend the void. tiny flowers process the confessions. of the innocent.

they're only doors. gateways to places I've been before. they were always open. the butterflies don't understand. how powerful they are.

the world ends where it began. in clenching fists. wanting more.

the weight of nothing is a heavy load.

the masks confer. skin debates. what is debt. what has already been paid. cracks in the glass. play with the equations. but the math is weak. and it forget the feel. of loose skin. all the small stitches that make it fit.

the villain comes with many names. so you won't remember. the trial churns. a blind tornado. deciding what to obliterate.

it's all the same.

empty hammocks. the grace of the wind. pretending to know. missing fingers. grabbing at the broken pieces. a picnic basket. a wolf in her bed. such big teeth.

a choice. so many of them. not asking.

everything too small. to see. i might be too far away. but too close is just as likely.

the drum. the caution. of stomping feet. little lies to make the night pass more quickly.

the outlines filling in. the fire finding its rage.

travelling time is easy. it's the getting back that's hard. the world blinks and everything is gone. sand under her fingernails. washed away.

she spends her days taming tigers with feathers and lace. her nights saving the world from drizzle and dandelion wisps.

it ends she supposes as weakly as it began. a grunt from a hoarse throat. am anchor grazing the bottom. as the boat drifts away.

that's the strange thing about dolls. they never speak, but always have so much to say.

that's what we are. isn't it. just dolls. wearing the clothes put on us. staying where we've been placed. saying nothing. while the words press against the stitches. that make us whole.

travelling time is easy. it's finding the beginning that's difficult. wings and cocoons all caught up in the worm. raindrops and snowflakes. all fall the same way.

down.

she waits for the blizzard. knowing it is coming. eventually. absent pigs in the huff of the wolf. small houses blown down. nothing inside them. except the ghosts that refuse to leaves.

we have our choices. in the crouches of flames. the hot and cold. in their oblivious juxtapositions. as if we're just peripheral. don't matter at all.

the atom on her smile. colliding. with the ones from her stare. the explosion has its merits. but those pieces. they always come back together. there is no cheating the monsters. as they are the same as us.

there are no lies that we can tell them. our truths are what they are made of. joyless propositions. dents in the sand. as we sway. as our kites lose their strings. and we watch them. leaving us.

broken tiles underfoot. turning over. empty boxes in the attic.

the numbers resolve. wolves in the pantry. fangs and all. her choices in chalk. gone with the obvious lessons. of devils and their dubious bargains.

the torches. pierce the darkness. while she reminisces on when the choices were not so sharp. the moment. and instant prison. brick and step. questioning where it came from. how it will end.

the boxes and the bow ties. a formal redress. gathering the empty. on barbed hooks. measuring the end. one face at a time.

the poison on her arrows failing to slay the beast. the heaven in her pocket too small to let us in.

counting. as though time knows where we began this list. stories. empty beds. small coffins. big heavens.

the numbers close. the flesh closer yet. lazy tales told by bleeding lips. the forest. ripe with trees. the end content to let us find it. the paradox. that i should find myself there. a small thread. at the corner of the world. needing a pull. a lion. asleep next to the lamb. waking up hungry.

she sees world she knows can't be there, but is. the simple temptations of choice. i could have it, but if i did, would i want it anymore. i could worship the avalanche. but it wouldn't bury me any less.

the moments fuss over their pawns. forgetting to protect their king. an easy checkmate. time drags its monsters through our skin. trying to convince us. there are choices. other than this.

This world is broken. and we are the crutches. that bring it to the edge.

hours wizened by the years. the desert of her grin solving for the dead. the dancing dolls wake up the stage. a bright blush of humility pushes the dirt into her eyes. devious numbers. attempt to cheat the equation. thick brushes. caked with paint. devouring the shadows these dark corners create.

what monsters she wonders might be hiding under her skin. what futures fester in the pus of her infections. spoiling in the depths of her sickness. the covet of the numbers as she discovers zero again.

no places. only theories. boxes. filled with experiments. the missing. the lost. the obvious. dead things scratching to get out.

empty boxes. too heavy to lift.

salamander tongues. nudge the words toward submission. the hours cope with stick and drum. beating the years out of fraying skins.

infinity arrives in a dazzle of lips and a thunder of when. the arrows trace her grin. with blunt precision. dogs chewing on the bones in perpetuity's fragile fist. inside it. seams. needles. missing threads.

the fortunate admonitions of thieves and orphans.

the circle that taunts a beginning never to be found. the snow that falls. gone before it touches the ground. it's just the weather. nothing we can change.

she waits for the worst. knowing it's coming. same earthquake. different places.

she carries the doll. by fraying limbs. same blood. different tears.

the math tries to know us. maybe, occasionally, it even does. the forgiveness of numbers. in divided skin. talking to the clowns. reasoning with the choices. as if they were ever ours.

the mud. where she crawled. the snow melting where she slept. the masks. cold accessories to so many murders. the truth. trying on its lies again. it doesn't fit. but it will. if we are patient.

the world in missing elephants. the things we couldn't take with us. calling us back. to look again. at what it was we had. and what we thought we didnt'.

we travel. as if we've been everywhere. we arrive and we leave the same. as if we were never there. digits on the counter. winds on the cliff. strangers call god. when they are afraid to jump.

the hole in her belly that is certain. that the dead still listen. long after we can't hear them anymore.

the barter comes in trembling ghosts. each grave begetting the next. the deal is closed in shattered windows. the hunger looking in on arrogant feasts. the lamb becomes a lion. and only blood can reset the scales.

small steps. through the abundant cold. we move on cracking crutches. toward heavens we know are not real. we heal on splintering nooses. pretending to sleep when no one is looking. always searching for the wolves in our grandmother's beds.

she's counting. as if numbers could foretell. she's counting. as if numbers are poison enough. to kill the suspicion. that there is life. in this pile of flesh.

time's weak strokes of medicine. Only prolong our deaths.

the stone under her heel. subtle masks. weightless burdens. the light climbs the curtains. repeating songs. muted instruments. she hears the future. in cold coughs. and hollows breaths. a tunnel. a godless church. suffocating in hope.

toys. pieces to move. as the game plays us.

the monsters that once were human. pulling open their zippers to show her the proof. she already knows that there is little difference between monsters are men. so what can they teach her?

stones. on the places where she walks. fists in each footstep. crippling the distance. between then and now. the years. crawling on their scabby knees. borrowed faces. still pretending our lives.

Her party dress all stained. In colors no one else can see. Her monsters. All of them human.

the earth recognizes. well-worn shoes. one machine into the next. a tedious derivative. of futile touches. grabbing at the numbers. as if they are more than mere markers. road signs to the abyss. clutching the math. as if it can tell us where we are.

pissing stars and naked moons. press their noses to the glass. looking in on faint gods. as they feast. on empty plates. what was ours. or we thought was. a hungry mouse in an infinite maze. rotting pieces of cheese. we can smell, but cannot taste.

she fondles the engine. coaxing it to hum. its bitter song. years wasted on those that came before. a lifetime of dolls. each one crippled with the want. for more.

choices. that interrupt living. wet torches. in fields of fire. we don't burn, but we wish we had.

it's not enough just to lose. we need to be defeated.