Faraway, I can hear them laughing again. Skittering echoes bouncing into the beyond. Ping of pinballs.

​

I pretend I am a thing made of knives so as not to be palmed, crushed in the cave of a hand, pocketed or ravaged by its sprouting stalactites.

 

Tell myself I am lemon-sulfur sun vomiting rays of furry needles.

 

My anti-sunlight is shattering. 

 

Pestilential.