words are fraying tethers.
I thought of the end and / I met it for what it was.
Her snail’s pace is patience, thrumming through the rooms where I try to exist.
inches from the nowhere drain
hound the ones with rounded edges
it took a year for it / to die, shelled and / alone in a far corner of / the unkempt living room.
in thick, tar-fused junes / we purpled shins on bike pedals
descend and dissolve
because I don't / know how to know / it any other way
i've grown feral.