Running forgets the direction it was going

Away from the sky, and the pain in it’s feet

In circles

It’s either you or the vultures

Or maybe one counterclockwise, and the other taking time

Who severed the heads of those rotting birds isn’t clear

But they’re blaming you as long as you’re here

Helplessly, you waggle your arms just like a balloon man selling cars as they swoop down to beat you with their weird neck stumps

Witch doesn’t really hurt, but the emotionless rage terrifies you

What hurts are your feet

Shriveled up shoes

Soulless in the desert of broken glass that suffocates sound

Doesn’t carry or linger just hits

The crunchy squelchy crunching of bleeding feet and beating necks

Nothing else

Except of course, the incessant echo in the hollow of your skull

Cruel laughter of necromancer pirates that dredge long sunken memories of a naive little fairy girl cast in moonlight sparkles pinky promising you not to end up here.

But you couldn’t handle loneliness

And there was never a caress as loving as the one that rubbed all the iridescence from your butterfly wings

So here you are

No matter how many circles you do, somehow they’re always imperfect

But give yourself more credit

You take it like a champ

Your whimpers meticulously calculated to be just out of range of whoever happens to be closest to you

You know you haven’t earned the right to scream

After all

as everyone and everything you’ve ever met has always told you

This wouldn’t hurt a bit if you would just keep still.