the face of the twofoot dinner.
she shrugged her shoulders sharply into the light. cracking the cakes of december over her toes. her solebones more apt to shovel at the bottom of her stomach like a cold wet dog. dying of being in heat.
she could tell. her heart was more vulture than phoenix in twilight.
and she wondered through a brimstone brain. if catastrophe were really to taste that awful in the end? when her knees were to finally burst on the pavement? and her own cold shoulderslates would be the ones to touch her palms last?
suspecting so.
she knew she wasn't walking straight.
she was sliding through the pearly shapes in her darkened hood.
cutting herself on the stars.
she could tell. her heart was more vulture than phoenix in twilight.
and she wondered through a brimstone brain. if catastrophe were really to taste that awful in the end? when her knees were to finally burst on the pavement? and her own cold shoulderslates would be the ones to touch her palms last?
suspecting so.
she knew she wasn't walking straight.
she was sliding through the pearly shapes in her darkened hood.
cutting herself on the stars.