deep violet irises sting. Scorching hot water boils in the corners of the almond shape. The tears, they cling and beg to live forever in the warm metallic house they grew in. Yet they fall. They fall dismally against the baby-soft skin, leaving a watery trail behind them: another attempt to never leave their host. To absorb into the almost perfect pores and live again in the tissues of their creator. They will never leave. They will brew in the giant cauldron of salty water that stays hidden behind the curtains of the skin and skull. When you gaze at the sky and see flashing dots and wiggling worm-y shapes, those aren’t atoms or viruses living in your head. They’re the ingredients the three witches above throw into the cauldron: Insecurias, Shyla and Self Doubtness. The hot steam condenses before it leaves the body. A trail of despair wherever they go. Off into the night, off into the heart.