Micro Stories

how many deaths?

Life flashes before your eyes before you die.
They say, whispers turning to smoke in the night’s chill.
Tightening the noose.
It’s a lie.
Every time
Every time I die, they erase a little more of me.
Disaster etched his lips, only the simplest of pains stitching his heart back together. They keep supplying the knives for him to cut it open.
Don’t rock the chair.
Their eyes closed, backs turned to the empty shoes and spilling sobs.

Life flashes before your eyes before you die.
It’s a lie.
Frozen clocks in their hearts, razors for tongues.
They knew all along. Steered him clear of me.
Drowning us both.
Better to leash a sheep than fear a wolf running free.

Don’t rock the chair.
Every time
Every time it breaks me a little more.
He’s running out of stitches.

Life flashes before your eyes before you die.
It’s a lie.
They stuffed their hands with paper mache, pockets with gold.
Didn’t know it would weigh them down, slow their hold.
Step by step, forgetting their fear, dragging their feet.
Someone whispered into the wrong ear, jewels wouldn’t be sold.
Caught up then, in their halls of majesty, they forgot.
They forgot about the slipping leash, their crooked crowns dulling the cuffs.
And he found me, sitting on the edge, feet dangling, holding their noose, rocking the chair.

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