Howlite Moon

Paper Skin

Jason lay

Under the howlite moon in Dennis' house,

Because the cave under the mansion

He had come to think of as home,

Felt cold

Because of what he did.

He could remember what happened without really trying.

The hard part was trying to forget. Trying to forget

The way

Cold hands

Clutched the knife

As he fell in and out of a psychedelic dream

Painted by the puppeteer that pulled his strings and wrapped his threads around his throat.

Laughing.

Laughing as she

Watched him.

He could see paper hands and paper faces,

All under

The howlite moon.

Even though that couldn't be possible,

Because it had happened as the last day of summer died,

Blood red sunset

Like the blood that washed over crumpled paper.

Not under the moonlight

That streamed in

From Dennis' open window.

Jason had tried to cover up the window

With the bedsheet

That lay sprawled beside his mattress,

But the the thin sheet refused to hide

Away

The light

So Jaosn just layed there.

And then Dennis' old mutt had taken the sheet and shambled away with it on legs like sticks.

"You should just shoot him," Jaosn had said to Dennis.

"I know," Dennis had said.

"Then why don't you?"

"You wouldn't understand, Cali boy," Dennis had said, his voice heavy.

He had left

And Jason

Never understood

What he was menat to understand.

He had asked Dennis what he had meant

But Everytime

He shook his head

And told him he'd understand

When

He's older.

Jason had said that maybe if he had understood before, he wouldn't have cut the paper faces that were suspended by loose strings.

Dennis had sealed his lips tight and left the room.

Jason had stopped asking him questions then.

They still talked,

Only

It was all

Completely meaningless,

Chatter and small talk

Like a wall of ice had decended between them

Even though it never seemed to grow cold.

Not in Rook.

Jason found himself wishing for rain.

So

Then

The outside

Would feel like

The inside.