the syncopated pitter-patter of
soft-soled feet flitter
in between scraps of forgotten memories
and shreds of vague familiarity —
and i don't know how many little people
are in there,
but i can hear their footsteps,
because everything seems louder
and more catastrophic,
in the dark.

a/n: i was going to add this to 'liberation' because the one chapter felt a little lonely, but i didn't because it had nothing to do with anything. this is just something i dug up and reworked at 5 in the morning in between a few hallucinations and (un)awkward silences on the other end of the line.