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The truth… Such a complicated thing. The problem with truths is that they’re like spices. Add a little, and it can enrich things, let you experience more layers. But if you pour out too much, it becomes unpalatable.
“Your anger is misplaced, but I like it,”
“Every time you let it leak out just a little bit more, I can see you better, Goldfinch.”
“Sometimes,” he murmurs, “things need first to be ruined in order to then be remade.”
The clouds move overhead, like a curtain peeling back, finger to lips, an eavesdropping sky.
I’ve been bending over backwards for so long that I forgot I even had a spine.
