Lightning worlds, squirrels turned to pearl. Screaming ghosts climb out from my pocket as the humming bird swirls. The whispers grow louder. Floors line the sink as boats climb higher. There's no coming back from here. It's difficult to imagine why we did this to ourselves. I can see the scattered flesh, a breath on the back of my neck...too weak to touch, too weak to regret. The whispers echo underwater, they never forget. My stifling sighs make skies cry white, pale; the sickness in a sandcastle. Worms try to escape. No one debates whether they can get away. Neon soldiers never stray. Their eyes look awake, a fear encompassed with impending fate. Smooth as night and slightly faked. The weakening tide lets me forget how I died, how I crawled from the lake.
