she has six hands and they are all holding me,
i am being strangled.
my lungs are bent, gasping,
she whispers in my ear:
“the crash is coming. no air can save you.”

she has eight eyes and they are never blinking,
tarantula hairs.
my blood is running a marathon, running,
i beg her to run away
but she lives where i live. i am not willing to die just to silence her.

she leads me to the rooftop,
tells me to put the dirt on.
my lungs’ scream is an axe, hacking,
all the walls are closing
she holds a vacuum to my lips.

she crouches beside me,
i hear her hissing mutters.
she is like a tsunami, everything,
she wears a crumbling rooftop like it is a crown
she sits on my head and holds my throat.

she tempts me to the edge of the highway,
everyone blurs together.
my head is like a broken hourglass, spilling everywhere,
brains look the same until they hit the windshield
my splatter, but she is not silenced.