hallelujah
the memories creep up from where I hid them sticky vine fingers sliding upwards into consciousness venomous flowers bursting into bloom with curious schadenfreude at their own existence and I breathe their noxious perfume in then fall.
I will never know if the choice I made while balancing on the edge of a white powdered razorblade a pinpoint heel-turn that changed the whole world that shattered every last idle dream left and made the stars leave any possible sky was right.
the memories play back in watercolour. and I suppose, once, they were beautiful.