Mapping out the original fiction. Taking hold of the ship mast because I’m the only one left who understands the wind. My compass is running on the fuel of my barefoot nightmares. It’s running on the exhaust of spent mornings and archived broken transportation routes. The money’s there if you can find it.
You won’t find it.
I’ll always be standing here watching Ava’s house burn down with the creepy doll in the attic melting into the woodwork and her kids looking up from the pavement with the same wide eyes. We played next to each other without words. I’ll always be pushing my baby sister across an endless tundra of fear and hot asphalt. Six years old and aware of the porn magazines ditched in the bushes I pushed my infant sister past. Shadows I’d crawled into clandestinely with other children to flip pages with penises we’d already seen, vaginas we’d all caught in the corner of our eyes.
Some of us had caught them in other dark holes and corners no one ever talked about, that we knew weren’t right. The broken toys always know they’re broken, you don’t have to shout about it.