On the underside of a horror story, my ghosts crawl along the walls to the dayglo exit. Reality is a bitter elixir that suits their broken teeth and U shaped smiles. Math drinks absinthe in the corner, telling stories of the world’s end. The universe will end not in a bang, but in a whisper. One soft plea for togetherness after the stars have pulled themselves into dank regions of brutal isolation. My ghosts are ride or die. I will ride with them or they’ll stitch my name in nightfall and feed me to the remnants of demonic empires.
Miniature Moon 