pocketknife

the moon sings to me, sometimes. nausea swirling through my bones. it tells me oh, just grow up already, and so i let the world slip from my leather palms and onto the floor.

watch the story spin out onto the icy road, pocketknife on my cheek, your hand in mine and i’ve got nothing left to say, so you tell me this time.

or don’t. because from this headache springs jealousy and heartache, and insatiable desire: i want to feel the smoke in my veins, i want to light the world on fire, i want something i can’t name.

a greasy snake in my mind. but if i just hold still for long enough, maybe everything will be fine. and someday when no one’s looking, right before the credits play, i’ll sneak out the fire escape because i’m tired, of edits and filters and lies; sucking in tight as i walk by and staring out the window.

but don’t you dare breathe, or bleed, or let them know. because the moon is full tonight, and the wolves will not hesitate to eat you alive. and leave your bloody, shattered remains to sink into the snow.

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