Don't Let the Forest In

Andrew was the worst about it, the one who clammed up or outright lied so people would stop trying to pry apart his bones and see why he was riddled with peculiar agonies.

Sticks cracked underfoot and he plowed through leaves until he sounded like a petulant storm.

The night pressed close to Andrew’s spine, cool hands sliding up his sweater and over his ribs. It seemed fascinated with the concept of his beating pulse, and it left inky fingerprints along his collarbone. If it asked to kiss him, he thought he would say yes.

A cool autumn breeze licked at his corners, and he’d never felt more like paper about to be swept into the sky.

He could only handle life if he looked at it carefully from the corner of his eye.

Except one look at Thomas and anyone could see his mouth was crammed full of thorns and lies.