11042010836AM

You, too, know the thing, the crackling - like my bones as I tip-toe past your mother's room and up the tense, stiff stairs to your bed - through the plywood and plaster like fire consuming thirsty logs and everything is breaking, stark and naked, the tallest trees moaning and creaking while their understudies split open along frosted bark. Our skin flakes and chafes, turns red and purple and grey and mottled veined blue and lips crack like baked earth under brutal Southern sunlight. 

I know that you can hardly feel my tiny bones through our layers of layers, thin, hollow, avian skeleton shifting and making no ripples. You worry, watch me from the stained passenger seat and your miniature twin-sized bed where one of us is bound to fall off and my king-sized bed where no matter how far we roll the edge is a distant thought.

You are in school; I'm sitting here at the dining room table in the dark, lighter still than the outside where purple charcoal storm-clouds collect themselves in an angry heap above the neighbourhood and all of the homes are empty. I am the only one left on this street of eight, nine monster houses. 

I don't think there is too much significance in any of this, really. I'm just making observations.