Degenerate locks allow me passage into a haunted house of my own making. The ghosts here were all embroidered by me. The slamming doors are a trap beat rising from the fiercest fire in hell. Folds of memory, folders of poems. What is left of a lace life unraveling. I cannot leave. The pain will devour me like a woodchipper, from the toes up.
Miniature Moon 