Skin Horse

Rooftops’ sharp edges shivering against a blue sky. Blue-blood. Bluebeard. Rooms you’re not supposed to go inside, mentally, to those places. The place where all the shadows run in when the light chases them away. Scintillant winds lulling and gathering, striking wires, some dull limn of silent string-plucking, a raw penny taste under your tongue maybe an electric shock. The way each moment makes previous moments harder to remember like holding your breath to now burst apart a dandelion seed head. Or an ice giant living inside some cold forest and afraid of sunlight more than time or wolves. Whose steps melt his own world. Or that great ape climbing the Empire State Building, crushing that lady in his huge paw, waving her flopping body around and hollering “I LOVE THIS WOMAN!”