the fox hears the rabbit screaming. it is a terrible thing, twist of a knife, portrait of a throat on fire.

what is it like to be god? to be cinder blooded? to weave dreams into nightmares? be the thing that goes bump in the night?

it is hysteria. it is black roses and ash-burnt lungs. it is beating the wind with raven wings, stirring skies into phantoms and moonlight into tricks. it is crumpled paper in a fire, disintegrating, as if it never was.

these susurrous nights, eden sinks into grief, wails and whips autumn into melodies that wrap like ivy within the crystalline cracks of my broken soul.

the night twists me full of ghosts.

the rabbit screams, and i shatter.