Brun.

I find you under and between what we used to be and what we saw ourselves as. That one finger turns green and gold has chipped away to reveal different alkalines. Not pretending is nice but uncomfortable. They could call us deities, martyrs, for Sunday mornings where handfuls of pills warrant a social call like you’re the bell of the ball with your name over death’s scrawl. Someday I will be gone and that is the day this will find you. I covet these bruises because they keep me alive, but too long I have pushed them to be sustenance and now I am getting heavy eyes. Who the hell is this man in the mirror, his hand against glass like my hands against my face as I scream into skin that knew yours. I could wear this outside as a warning.

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