The fang tips of a demon mouth cause the stars in the midnight sky, trying to puncture the delicate tissue over the world, blue— the blue of a bruised vein waiting to burst and flood the city. I’ve got one hand in the wind and one hand on the wheel, the car leaving a trail, the cool inner bulb of a flame stretched to a line. Above, a flock of birds fly headfirst into a passenger plane. If the world was going to end right now, I’m entirely fine with this being my final stance, an anonymous statue for whoever stumbles upon me in a second life— frozen in the driver’s seat, turned from the sky caving in, monstrous stained glass falls, knives, as ink covers my hands— a smudged goodbye note left on a kitchen counter, a broken pen in two halves, leaking blue liquid onto the tile, the molar white of the floor biting back.