cold as stones
and while she sticks
to the edges for the sake of
her own bones, it is still enough
to crack her chest in two, bleed through
the lines they’ve drawn in this sinking sand.
small, silent deaths
carved in quiet Braille and
an invisible trail of scattered
stale breadcrumbs leading out of here
forest and trees, billowed breeze whispering
of some window, one last shred of hope. Nope.
out of rope.)
New prompt site for me: Adele Kenny at The Music in It.