all of those little things that multiply and multiply until they weigh more than you do and your chapped lips can't hold them all in and Ron asks why are you making that funny face can i kiss you? so you clench all of those little things back where they belong so hard it burns like bile or the fire in the pit of your belly. so hard so he can't see them peek up and out of your eyes and he won't get scared like he was before.

biting the blister at the corner of your mouth letting time pass by: for once none of it boils up and you smile opening your hands like stars. these hands are worn callused and yellow like ron's hands. don't get scared like you were before, okay? okay. and he lets you blink your eyelashes 1 2 at the base of his neck. once a long time ago he cried. the first time. ron thought it felt like spiders so he said no and then you kissed him. 1 2. at the base of his neck.

light coming in now and all around orange bright yellow. making everything easier the shapes are sharper outlined: now you can see the maroon chair and the big door and all of those little things leering a leering back at you. they are oh so many they block the wallpaper and the lampshade like great big monsters. squeezing your eyes so shut you see flowers bloodbloom out of nothing. ron you say. looking down at you with a slantways mouth he is touching stroking your back counting all the links tracing all the messages from your brain. big hands that burn like it burned when someone else called you. opening your eyes seeing sparks and little things. so afraid. so afraid he will notice them.

are you cold? he keeps asking. are you hungry or tired? why do you make those faces?

looking up pretty hazel is so kind like he would never do it. like he couldn't make those fingers a bad bad fist. never going to break your face wide open like a piggybank the way he should have. would have. never ever going to give you back to the museum where you grew up or the arms that killed made you and inside planted lots of awful little things.

stirring letting hair fall out of your eyes the color of smoke. those white hands can't be mine. seeing lots of secrets hung up like portraits struggling like all of their bodies. so many you fold shake like a leaf and ron shakes too.

saying i forgive you i do it's all right

he would have died anyway