I am stumbling up a flight of stairs.
Or maybe, maybe I am the stairs and some drunken asshole is stuggling to tread on me, thread by me; naysay my existence like he has a thousand times before. I’m only recognized when I’m an obstacle.
Or maybe, maybe I am the brown haired girl holding him steady, watching his acetone tears burn streaks of agony across a world weathered face tethered to hopelessness before its time.
maybe I am time, tick tocking, pocket picking the universe of its pinnacle highs and lows with papershredder in-betweens.
Or maybe, maybe I am the dream of her that caused this fucking mess in the first place.
Emporium of worrysome holdovers.
Phantasmagoria is the only recourse
of solar systems on the brink