entelequia
I guess I made you up.
of course you live, of course! but here, inside my ribs, tap dancing on my diaphragm, two palms pressing thin skin, you’ll be the clock with broken gears, the dark sky, the realization.
and if you’re my shadow, an aching, rotting thing, a screaming vacuum, the dry oasis where palms grew like fire, it’s a muffled voice inside, a shout in the void without echo.
ask me about dreams, ask me! but don’t leave me in silence, invent for me a story with a hero and a ghost, paint my skin red and black and kiss my forehead, the empty grave, the aftermath.
if I made you up what a cruel joke to play along, to be the stalking demon and the hurtling comet, a shameful creature without shame.
nina p














