Fidget.

Insomnia, insomniac — who speaks in the night, I wonder?

A sudden scrape with a friend, confused hurt, disappointment, the knowledge that all things end, whether we want them to or not, whether we work for them not to: a nebulous future, a guttering candle.

A rotting heart learning to nourish, withering in the harsh light of unpleasant, necessary truth.

The antidepressant filters, thick cotton for bleeding emotion without edges that eventually soaks through. What comes out the other side?

Persephone’s cool breath through the cracked window, caressing my forehead with absent fingers. Tonight, it may be enough to bring me in the rest of the way gently, rather than down via Dionysus’s swaying embrace.

Aurora says hello.

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