Thorn Apple
Ruthanne stopped apologizing years ago.
Ruthanne stopped apologizing years ago.
I can make it ring.
She watches the blue at the root of the flame.
The room is cold. A hospital cold that lives in the walls.
Three flowers, a knife, and the burden of knowing what mercy costs.
She whispered it aloud. Her voice. Lower, gruffer.
Forever now. Somehow that made it matter less.
Mirror. Signal. Breathe.
Between panes of glass, choice slips away.
Vanilla musk. She never changes.
It started as a joke, really. Betsy dared me.
“Why are you late?”