moving backwards—

In one story:
you were unafraid. You swallowed the memorymurk of her whole. 

In another: you follow the other girl into the dark. You step over twigs and centipedes, you crawl over logs and fallen branches, you warm your hands in your pockets and watch the cold air bleed from your mouth and you follow Tony deeper, deeper, into the woods. You do not listen to your better judgement. You listen to your fear and pursue its smirking unholiness. Tony is smiling at you, disappearing behind trees, slippery, translucent. You can’t seem to move your mouth, to expel the words from the pit of your throat. So you keep walking.