Sweat would drip and be consumed. She’d smell her hair then pull it too. Each one would go for breadth to last—the time would tick as hours passed. That taste of breath would be her tongue. Their heart’s great pain would come undone. Together there they’d seek to heal, emboldening the right to feel, holding fast to what was seen, the way this girl would become mean—her lie it spoke of something sparse, that shine the brightest through her farse. She’d been the sweetest of them all before her longest, greatest fall. Yet fate had taught to flip and flop. She’d cry a bit then hit the spot.
