MillieMilesinTheWild

The air is gelid, it's as if I’ve touched the spiraled stove again. This time it’s all over. I rock on my heels, matching the tempo of the passing seconds. I wait until the warmth encases me.

The best are those which hurt the most; 

That crackle and rip through your tissue and bone. 

The best are when the aftershock shatters violently across the mountain range;

Amelia is my name

It is an unbroken sort of thing

It is the rosy pink of a bashful face;

Of a bitter winter day spent on a snowcapped mountain.

It is the dripping wet glove placed on a petrol heater to dry

The ground is covered in fire.

The bleached smoke rasps into my lungs;

So cold, it burns my hands until skin melts like the aftershock.

Paper cranes made of dust tear through me.

Keebler Strawberry Wafers and Pepsi. 
I can feel the artificial crystals pile up and melt into the cracks of my cavities. 
I cringe at the aftertaste but refuse to waste it.

I was wrapping a present during twilight, the night before my father's birthday.

I sat on the cold and disorganized concrete floor of the basement.

While shifting my weight, I noticed a traveling spider: