CanaryInTheCathouse

I Hold the Hand of a Dead Girl I am tired. My soles are worn smooth — parallel to the rutted road. I move through every crevasse, each memorized, while my arm extends into a paler one. It belongs to a familiar small nose — and big cheeks and long legs and thin hips. I drag her behind me — her feet hanging limply to her left. Heels under layers of frayed bandages seed violent veins that cling to the backs of her legs. Her skin — made of asphalt and gravel, old cloth and calluses — peels off in supple white heaps as it snags a glitch in the floor. My fingers leave dents in her soft palm. My steps

I wish i had more to say (: Just wanted to say thank you everyone for all the comments.  It's inspiring. Yes, I ache, and wrench what is left out of the dark, into here, now, and I'm on edge. I cannot put that rot in me, I have boxes, and bags, and cartons and jugs and bottles — disgusting.  What happened? The chain, the bolt, the latch, the bar, the dial, 13 32 12, unhinge — still dark thank god, and nothing moving. And I move. 3000 times per minute — my tires rotate, times 20 and no need to pay attention, and 40 miles per hour, and 25 miles for two dollars, good to know it doesn't stop, and I am here, again, a

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