Another flare, and she forgets that there is anything but poison left in her mind.
Four Two. Files corrupted. Can’t use the right words.
Four Two. Take it. Take it. In bee stings and car crashes. Leave the money you bastards. She screams. And toxin stumbles, heavy as wet sand.
She says. Lanterns always burn brighter than lighthouses. When the storms come. And don’t go wasting no more time looking for the right name on the rescue boat. Scaffolded in paper cranes and paper cuts. Can’t be bothered to look for the difference between hands and fists. Anymore. She says.
It’s all dry land to the shipwrecked. She says.
And the in the silence between words she breathes another spoonful and waits for the wreckers to call her home.
©2017 Jac Forsyth
Four Two was inspired by a wildly desolate piece of artwork created by Ash Finn.