his knuckles are bruised. they cover varicose veins.
his bones wilt under the impact.
metal against grass, skin against concrete.
a gasp in the width of an uncaring crowd like
teethy foxes in place of the justice league.
revenge, except it never worked.
a jet in the air for the fairy winter solstice.
something pops as she suffers.
his watch might leave an imprint seared like from branding.
she closes her eyes and imagines red iron against red iron against him.
his fairytales were never false and it tore at her limbs,
creatures of satanic descent.
so she ran into the forest, they say, and the day was so hot
her atoms burst and she became the young willow tree by the river.
a thousand years and she’s still young.