sleep wraps around her body, each time creating a brittle layer, an outside shell that, try as she might, will never hold up, and will always chip and crack under the weight of each morning.
darkness is the weight that your shadow cannot carry.
i have a new friend. he likes to be called ‘silence’. he sits at the edge
of my bed, every night. he tucks me in under my sheets, kisses me goodnight, and watches me sleep.
but i’m not really asleep, and he isn’t really there.
this city is too small to hold the weight i feel. i walk the streets, and each step creates a stitch in my path. i am going around in circles, turning corners, crossing (and uncrossing) bridges. i do this until there is no way to decipher my way back home, or your way back to me.