AFTER THE END

You don’t have to live. No, not really.

Slick cardboard punishes soft skin.

You don’t have to die. No, not yet.

Silhouettes climb wooden legs—shadow hands grasp at chantilly.

Creaking floors beneath feet, crumbling walls within.

You don’t have to live. No, not really.

Witness sleep on tabletops, the scent of damp lily.

Whispers lurk in corners, jagged lies dig in.

You don’t have to die. No, not yet.

I taste rust. My tongue cracks open unwillingly.

Scars remind me where hostile blades have been.

You don’t have to live. No, not really.

“Stay or go?!” Both paths twist cruelly.

A hiss. A grin. Grief dressed as sin.

You don’t have to die. No, not yet.

The chant returns. Lights stutter, falter freely.

Empty chest musters a sigh: “It’s already been.”

You don’t have to live. No, not really.

You don’t have to die. No, not yet.