in which I am not too young to know why my world is ending

♦ Azurite Petrichor ♦

 & 

a lock is just a lock, not a deadbolt/stronghold/lifeline/weapon. you’re on your knees praying straight to god but telephone calls always go unanswered. the perfect victim, your stomach hollows the space for forgetting today and yesterday and yesterday and the door ripples like a wave in an ocean you are supposed to trust. they say the weather’s calm but you’re out to sea so it’s unreliable as always. as always. he crashes you down wood burning through your knees as he reminds you why no one answers your telephone calls. stiff as your veins went, stiff but never empty, each bullet hole counted down like an atomic bomb, echoes of uranium still zipping off your tongue. rubble singes your converse as you leap over wounds that puddle into rain over valleys, the victim you were before each bullet flayed your bones, his mantras a second skin. saltwater scalds your throat, waves teeming wide, neurons clustered together when all the right words weren’t enough. no one is coming to save you. 

a lock isn’t anything but a false promise; even doors can be broken down. his mantras mean nothing but the burning in the back in my throat says otherwise. the world can fit in the palm of anyone’s hand and there is no safety in my mouth, windmill body caught in the teeth of defense. I choke down the world, punching holes between continents until my lungs burst open purple-blue like the wounds I can feel but cannot remember. 

both bodies exit wounds

&

you'll never flee this skyline.