not that the ness
is gone she's found
herself carrying a
burden of pure
boredom. the dusk
falls and she all
but grimaces at it,
rips out more hair,
waits for the sun
to **** her new skin,
she is *******,
she is the unbearable
weight of standing
still while falling.
her eyes are not
blind, but she
keeps them shut
in fear that one
day they will be.
she is years of
sixteen, of sundays.
her hair is dark
but it reflects every
light she passes.
she will keep pounding
this pencil, examining
her fate, shifting blocks
around in hopes of
forming a circle. the
only thing enough
for her lies on
the other side of
the canyon, where
interstitial a
great danger looms.
she has been
falling
falling
falling
forever,
and one cannot
help but wonder
when her dear
havoc will end.