Tender inside her wound she slipped. Still broken from the last night’s fallen dreams. A few bone-dusts churned into the broth of flesh. A teaspoon of blood. A pinch of his fading memories. In this abandoned house, smelling of bearskins, alone and lost, delicacies’ been waiting for her.
Tonight, Goldilock will not find the porridge that is neither too hot nor too cold.
When Darkness Blinks 