i will hang my feet from what's left of the sunset, resigned and in poor fetal position: an attempt to make the pain smaller. but i feel it down to my shoulders, to my limbs, to the parts of my lungs that were left untouched. it spreads in the shadows, like a clandestine secret. soon, i will burst from all this anguish, like a kaleidoscope of crimson butterflies. soon, the sky will feel the forms of sadness locked inside a mortal body; it's the most freeing prisonbreak, and come tomorrow, there will smaller spaces for pain to consume. soon, all traces of pristine, sunday light will leave this black hole, in the same violent ways they're trapped, and my wounds will give birth to the dusk, as the prettiest sunset slips by in a blur — gone as i am. gone as i hope to be.
i fall to the ground, in a perfected fetal position —
i want nothing more than to be smaller than my pain.
