Running through a field of flowers
during a lightning storm; not giving a fuck
if I get electrocuted—maybe I’ll electrocute back.
October—a birth and a death; nostalgia has
her fingers creeping along my throat,
a brush with a tiny bit of death.
And I want to self-destruct—at night, I can’t
see his face, and the memories shuffle—chaotic.
I cannot recall; I cannot touch them with my brain.
Posted on fictionaut.com