Pure Like Porcelain

Ameliorate

Wasted Space

Keeping Secrets

After The Ice Melts

The nights are the worst. Not because of the screams outside, or the shuffling footsteps that drag through the dirt, but because of the silence that follows. That kind of quiet makes you listen too hard, makes you notice the little things. Like how his breathing changes. How his skin looks a little paler every morning. How I can’t tell if he’s just tired, or if the infection is creeping its way through him, inch by inch, waiting for me to blink before it takes what’s left of him.

I tell myself he’s still in there. That maybe tomorrow he’ll smile again, or remember a joke from before the world ended. But every day it’s harder to tell if we’re surviving or just waiting to rot. Sometimes I feel it too, the numbness, the ache behind my eyes, the hunger that never quite feels human. Maybe that’s the curse of staying alive out here. You don’t know which is worse anymore… turning into one of them, or watching the last person who mattered slowly forget what it means to be human.

The Rose

Memphis May Fire

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