I can feel the whisper of swallow wings against my cheek.
The taunting voices reverberating off
the inner membranes of your skull. Urging you
to do it.
To take the plunge.
Suffocating under layers of decadently laced vermilion,
nothing managed but a slight echo of utterances.
Did you say something? Silence.
A voice with a lost cause, a coarse guttural mix of letters
bunched up into the left hand.
Because nothing's ever right.
No intimacy. A mix of phalanges extended out hoping to be met
with a complimentary counterpart.
Instead, ulnae are met with a rough backhand.
You. I. Don't understand.