I am thinking of sitting in front of a broken window and wishing the sun away. The light has left selfish marks on my skin and they meet each other despite my malevolence. I was never one to grow out of my fatalities.

Often, I lie awake in a bed that feels
foreign enough to be called home and
feel the dark circles under my eyes
spread out until my hands arise to gather the dark night in my palms and
squeeze the silver out of a black ball.

The talons are reaching out for my chest, aching just to graze the abnormality under my dark blue skin. I am a wilting white rose in a field of sunflowers and they are all waiting for the last petal to fall.