If the whisper is thorns, it doesn't belong to you.
Eyes are always trying to slip you into knots, but don't
fall into the fake green grass. It is thorns too.
They are everywhere. I am not talking about the devil.
It is the 'you' that you have to keep choosing,
the shadow of sugar trying to run away, wanting something
that does not exist. The secrets are unzipping,
but I don't want to talk about snakes anymore.
I don't want to think of slithering and a fiction
of creation. I want us to hold hands and remember
who we were before the sun boiled to black.
