The vial.
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I thought there was a difference, of the poison I
prove and the damage I do. Or like one begets the
other? I see the poison in my lineage, and Arlo's
too, and you. It's no sore to soak out. It's a
vial, now with a label. So I won't pour it into my
pail anymore, knowing not what I do. But Arlo?
My shadow got soaked in it, long ago, before I got
a stopper on it and a name. It followed me as it
does, and untied my agreement that day. So when I
finally came around in the evening, there's a
filthy rag dried and stuffed in a hole blown
through my chest. I pulled into that lot where
she's waiting. Arlo never made it, so she was
still there. Sitting on the wet broken pavement
with a canvas bag, and her car's door handle
pulled off. And there's blood on her hands. She
must have tried a lot of times.
We drove off together in silence, her bag thrown
in the back. It's still there. I know what's in
it, but I can't face it to look. Not yet.
I don't know if her broken fingers will shine from
this one day or not, but my own gold is still
cloaked and soaked. One step at a time, I guess.
