A righteous ridge of anger winds through the plains of plastic feeling. Rage is a red, hard thing. I throw my name at it and my name slides off. Rage has a grip on reality much like it does on softening butter. Certainty evaporates here, and questions rain down. My body is poised for questions but not for this poison, this vial of unforgiveness with a homemade label slapped on it that says “feral righteousness.” If you follow the ridge, Regret will plunge you into the sea, a millstone around your neck for every child you never had.
Miniature Moon 