Hooves arrive first.
Not seen
felt.
Bone against stone
a rhythm that doesn’t belong to the surface world.
My hand cramps.
Ink catches
stalls
then drags.
I feel it
before I understand it.
Low in my body.
That shift.
The air thickens around it.
Sweet.
Too sweet.
Like something blooming where it shouldn’t.
I press harder.
The line splits.
Bleeds.
