The vial.
- joneworlds@mailbox.org

I thought there was a  difference, of the poison I
prove and the damage I  do. Or like one begets the
other? I see the poison  in my lineage, and Arlo's
too, and you.   It's no sore to soak  out.  It's a
vial, now with a label. So I won't pour it into my
pail anymore, knowing not what I do. But Arlo?

My shadow got soaked in it, long ago, before I got
a stopper on it and a  name.  It followed me as it
does, and untied my agreement that day.  So when I
finally  came around  in  the  evening, there's  a
filthy  rag  dried and  stuffed  in  a hole  blown
through my  chest.  I  pulled into that  lot where
she's  waiting.  Arlo  never made  it, so  she was
still there.   Sitting on the wet  broken pavement
with  a  canvas bag,  and  her  car's door  handle
pulled off.  And there's  blood on her hands.  She
must have tried a lot of times.

We drove  off together in silence,  her bag thrown
in the  back. It's still  there. I know  what's in
it, but I can't face it to look. Not yet.

I don't know if her broken fingers will shine from
this  one day  or not,  but my  own gold  is still
cloaked and soaked. One step at a time, I guess.