Doom is a perilous art. I wait expectantly for the fall. It doesn't come, not yet. It's easier to feel in the dark.
I can **** my own demons. Or, at least, starve them in the corner. Experience carved armor into my skin. Theirs is still soft, squishy.
They're so blissfully oblivious. Put this snow globe moment up on the shelf. Pain doesn't have to exist anymore. I'm exhausted.  
The black hole inside my ribs swallows up everything. My chest aches in a way I'm not used to. This isn't my sadness. Is this fear?
I collect stickers and stuffies with fervor. My pockets are lined with candies to stick the pieces back together. I'm sure I'll hear it. It's not often that ten hearts shatter at once.
Gap in the picture. No matter what, they're going to feel the aftershock. Turkey basted in tears surely tastes dry. I hope October never ends.