First and last breath here.
Less entertaining than a hamster wheel, this is more like a wagon wheel, wooden spokes crafted with care to withstand time and distance. Your limbs are entwined within the pattern of spokes, immobilized by entanglement and stiffness. One Russian nesting doll out, you can see the veins on your arms as they grip the spokes, see the wood scrape and bruise the skin of your thighs. Another doll out, you can see your own horrified and helpless observing. Seven layers out now. Anger, grief, sadness, hopelessness, acceptance, surrender.
Tears and blood, which washes and which carries away? Tears as you find a sacred place on the wall for the sword you’ve always carried, sadness and joy at once. Blood as you turn it on yourself one last time to slice off the ribbons holding you and get a bit cut up in the process.
This story will only exist in the old war room now. You’ll paint a sigil on the wall, purple. You’ve finger painted purple before, deep mixes of blood and truth. You’ll cover it with the shellac of tears and honey.
Honey is what you’ve found in every wound where you thought there could only be blood.