she couldn’t stop her hands, as much as she wanted them to stop grasping air like her world could start making sense again. like everything would be fine if she just found something to lean against. truth was— there was nothing, because dreams are not consistent, because in the cold morning, everything fades in black smoke filling her lungs and replacing the scent she had tried to hold onto.

breaths were stuck in her throat, struggling in between tearless sobs to escape, like reality was gliding away through her fingertips. darkness was just a tale— that’s what she told herself as it wrapped its wings around her, sharp and tight like despair, like loneliness.

like something she had tried to block from happening, her whole being crushed in the action, palms bleeding because the door was too heavy and opened anyway. there was no bed, there was no warmth, there was just

nothing.