After dusk, we become paranoid. Our brains, primed for hyperactive pattern seeking by millennia of evolution, can't help but tell us that that noise downstairs was an intruder, or maybe even something worse...
Tell me a story about paranoia against a dim and dusky setting.
Posted in response to the challenge Brainstorm Ideas for YWP's 2025-26 Weekly Challenges.
On my sixteenth birthday.
I curled into a ball in the frayed, silk afterglow of childhood,
When you are old
Your skin will become like paper,
And your bones will be like the wooden ribs
Of a lantern
So that the world will see the light in your chest.
But I don't need to wait
I hung in the sky, frowning down at the city below me
Scowling because Peter Pan went away.
I had stretched, and my body had run away
In the years since then.
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