nearjat
Bluelighter
My hands are shaky, I'm not sure why. Maybe it's fear of the flaky and my gears are running dry. The poison sits below me, aroma like a coma. Foam from lips appealing to its owner. There's an elegance to this, the way I deny this tightrope below me. Wearing thin chances and no light shows or knowing. Hearing that foul bird crowing the fear/love tug of war. Sneering clawing is all I heard, the sounds of wanting more.
