The leaves crackle
beneath boots heavy
with our tension.

The thread winds
and it winds
and it winds,
stretched taut

with every word
yelled quietly.
A game of telephone

family gossip factory
pumping out misspoken
and misheard
words. Peacemaker

sticking their nose in the
cerulean fire.
On forced walks

we pick pinecones
and get pricked
by their sharp
edges hard enough

to cause pain,
not quite to bleed.
Outside the pine walls

where my windpipe
can fall open
hearth smoke drifts and congests
and it smells like autumn.