I am a ghost in a prism
I am a ghost in a prism; a stigmatist contemplating the transmutability of trauma.
My bones wax and weave into a yawning smog, where the gravity of shame keeps
me in pseudocoma. Naked, eroding; harnessing the frequency of shadow to
amalgamate blood to honey.
A twilight humbling approaches, my nerves peel to expose the soil of arachnid panic.
I remain altered, like some sort of feral child on the periphery of it all, dancing to
the deranged rhythms of grief, and the romantic litany of an arsonist's prayer.