pacing as the air turns cold,
slamming fist against frustration.
how can the light and the roses and the sky be so calm in the face of this?
pacing as it rises in my throat,
dying to scream, afraid to choke.
the shadows on the glass and the breeze through the window rage against my voice.
pacing with my hands in my hair,
arm across forehead, rubbing at the thoughts.
its still there, and everything is still the same, no matter how much i think ive changed.
pacing in the stale light,
poisoned pen across hungry paper.
cloth on skin and silver and bead and curls in the corner of my eye.
and ink turned grey and wire on wood, trapped in my chest and ready to burst.
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