On The Run

The hell envisioned in this vacant room takes me back to your high school bedroom — on the bed your mother swore to shoot us if caught beneath the sheets together. I nibbled my fingernails, splicing the blinds. The cops—of your brokenness—charged me with murdering your self-esteem. I’m sure we can settle this alone. Get here before your morals arrive, dear, or you’ll lose me.

(© 2022 AC)

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