• You were balancing the leaves on a backyard tree, leaning over the railing you're standing on. All the blood that has gone to your head disagrees with the bricks that it's spilling on. You awaken to words, not ready to hear:

    "The dog's put to sleep. Your brother no longer lives here. But Thanksgiving is coming, and you have such a wonderful scar, dear."

    When you were jumping out of your sensitive skin for seventeen years, shivering- lonely, everyday. From the workshops and fig trees and fingers gone missing, secrectly strange. Your balance has vanished.

    "While you were unconscious, the quiet ones crowded the stage."

    When you were choking on fire, your breathing gone south, in front of your friend's house, too late. All the ashes are flying beside her tonight, uncovering everything. All the sickness built up in your body is over, so final and suddenly. Tunnels of light come alive while putting your life to sleep.

    You awaken to words, not ready to hear, unrecognizable, perfectly clear:

    "But Thanksgiving is coming, and you have such a wonderful scar, dear."