Scabs I Pick At In The Dark

You move like a rag doll, your arms and legs flailing without your consent.

My nose is pressed to the screen, obsessively watching your fall.

Your mouth moves, you're speaking, but your voice gets lost in the fire engulfing the building.

In reverse, you're flying, soaring, free of all pain.

I switch the TV off (The whites of my eyes are bloodshot).