Pandora, In Parts

Part Five

In a puddle of muck, she tries to wash her hands. The slick black dripping from her fingertips and she hears lightning from behind her before she is taken back to the rocks. And the chains. On the mountain. Where poison, just as black, spilled her lips, her hands. Spilled from her mouth until she spoke nonsense, whatever they wanted to hear. She would be their false messiah. She would be theirs, born of clay again and again and again.

I’m busy watching sunsets from my balcony. I’m busy letting my mind roam and wander where it needs to. I’m busy letting the wind play with my hair.

Oscillate like a satellite. 

Like a machine gun. 

Like a fan.

Remember.