It’s five am and you’re playing hide and seek with yourself in a glass house, cutting your fingers on your reflection, watching sunlight unwind the walls. Above you, the sky seeps open like a freshly cracked egg. You scan the room, holding seconds under your breath, waiting for your shadow to reroot itself at your feet.

It’s eight am and the fruit in each bowl is rotted and festering with flies. You catch them between your fingers and tear off their wings, place them on your tongue like they’re shining stamps and your skin is the letter, address them to yourself and watch the mail get delayed.

It’s twelve pm and the glass around you focuses light into a blade, cutting you clean through as butterflies burn. Everything is shattering in slow motion. Your eyes are too scorched to see. You crawl the perimeter of the room, searching for your shadow, just to cup in your hands. Just to hold.