when you live in war fields it’s rare to see anyone with all four limbs intact. most of your friends are ghosts and even then: ghosts don’t make good friends. you hover around lamps to collect dinner moths and roll them up in old newspaper. late at night when your mouth is full of moth wings and cotton you hear the war bugles. underneath the floor boards are your fallout bedrooms and your battle cry bedtime stories. the next morning you go to the surgeons tent to look for a new shoe or if you are lucky a glove. you meet the new ghost of an old acquaintance and together you walk the war fields.
war fields
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sarahgoodreau 