Webbed

Sitting on a throne
Made of thread
Shimmering silver
Not yet red.

Reaching farther than the dimming horizon.
I laughed as if I don't know.
I laughed as if I wasn't listening before.
Hahaha. Hahaha.Hahaha.Haha...

They follow me wherever I go.
To bathroom, to school,
To restaurants, to bed.
To blankets, to windows,
To highways, to food court.
To everywhere

Came home tonight, didn't expect much.
Some leftover rice, lettuce soup, and maybe some green beans too.
"Hey, I'm home."
It was quieter than usual.
I walked upstairs to handshake with the dark.
She was standing, hunched.
Her hand clutched to that black device, her lifesaver.
Father put away those empty shells he munched.

"What's up?" Alarmed, my voice high with deception.
Ignored and shunned, I knew what I would find in this direction.
Bloodshot eyes, tissues crumpled,
tussled hair, voices mumbled.

I ran away before, I knew what was wrong. Didn't want to ask, to demand, but they spilled faster.
"Why was mom crying?"

::STOP LYING TO YOURSELF::
::RETREAT!::
::RETREAT!::

"...he's dead."

::SNAP::
The throne, the throne, it has collapsed.
One thread ran crimson, and ripped in half.
Falling and Falling, I landed on the floor,

::I CAN'T TAKE IT, I CAN'T TAKE IT ANYMORE!::

Elle est morte. À L'intérieur, elle voit cacher.
Je suis désolée, pour je suis un lâche.