seven and eighty-seven.
out of everything she’d said, i clung only to those two numbers. E’s still proliferate pages as psychopathy traces ledgers beneath. there are spiders beneath my pillow and rats sleeping at the foot of my bed. they watch in wait for me to cave to hunger, to make a meal of sleep. these symbols of fear writhing with deceit; instability supreme, prudence discreet.
the skin covering skull continues to transform; i can feel the hot blood flowing through my brain; it’s only a matter of time before the thinking woman pose leaves a puncture wound for all to clean.