She stands—
small as a whisper
against the bleeding sky—
The night unfurls
in ink
and red-ash.

She listens
for the slightest noise—
a snap
a howl
a stretch
in her imagination—
the language
of things
that do not speak quietly.

The world beside her
breached—
every splatter
every stain
heavy on her trenches.

She wonders—
if the dark feeds on her fears
if shadows
ever tire of stretching—
somewhere
between heartbeats
she stands her ground
with tin soldiers
pooling at her feet—
falling
right as rain.