A (not so) Brief History in (approx) 10 Acts

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nine.

one and two twelveths.

I find that I write snippets of lives I’ve lived

there isn’t anyone trying to find me i’ve gone to look for myself is this what regret feels like? looking up through the notches in the staircase banister the railing - is there another word for that? it’s cold the stairs are dusty brown against the grey and white smudged walls cracks and divets little snowflakes of plaster turn the stairs grey with age snap of the light-switch an ugly antique globe holds a dim brightness the color has leaked out of everything i’m standing in greyscale emptiness inside, emptiness outside a greyscale void with an ever constant tugging breaths get stuck, caught somewhere in my chest a heaviness, breathing in smoke slowly choking suffocating from the inside out can you die of regret? I always thought it ate you alive gnawing every little bit of your heart away all you could think of was the past masticating, teething on the future until there is no future left but maybe it’s really just tugging and uncried tears looking through them at what was what has been lost… where do those tears go?