• Vol. 04
  • Chapter 01
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You’re unraveling, late and early at the same time, dizzy in a closet full of satin hands crying out: now look what you’ve made us do.

This is the wreckage of all that wanting.

This is your wilderness: too much, too many, static rows of jagged pines cackling on wire. They tell you to clean your feet.

They tell you you’re bleeding. You know you’ve always been full of it, all salt and wool mixed together to make CRASH—

The floor’s a sea of broken glass, the merry-go-round’s set backwards to the tune of plastic pony teeth grinding in their sleep, and you can’t see straight, not anymore.

What a mess. What a moonshine. You stand up, swinging on the scent of burnt plastic. They tell you you’re losing it.

They tell you you’re fading fast. Go home, they say. Come morning you’ll be jello-based, a liquid creature on the milk limbs of a newborn calf with spaceshot eyes.

Your blood rolls out in grapevines, neck to toes, clinging to stocking locks. From your knees you tug the skirts, begging them to teach you how to not say sorry.

The oozing doesn’t stop. The cackling gets louder. You swoon and bring a hand to your throat to stop the gush.

But oh, this broken glass feels like glaciers, and you can’t help it if you're having fun.