you’re telling me something
in my sleep: clawed hands.
a quiet affair: you are not scared.

so then, before it all burns to
ashes here in my hands,
tell me if im too quiet too loud
tiptoeing to the door,
tiptoeing to the window and the 
BALCONY,
the curtains in the wind,

muffled into the sheets
I bite down
think to myself 
in the red
glow

should i start screaming again?