The smell of burnt matches attached
itself to her fingernails.
The talking and footsteps of people on the
street started eating their way through the wall.
There was no one in her phone to call.
Just a list of people she barely remembered,
or was still fighting hard to forget.
There is no time to face regret, on top
of all the daily pain.
The jagged chain link peeling back,
like plastic in a bonfire, red spray paint
marked the trees to be destroyed.
She spent all of dinner looking for
weaknesses in the waitress, but couldn’t
find much except for all the drinking.
She thought it made her better,
but that was just a lame excuse.
The truth was in her shadow’s sternum.
Lined up perfect just to burn them.
She gave it all away then took it back.
Teleporting Typewriter 