muriel had learned to lie in passiveness, back bowed for the devil to give him his lashes. his eyes burned, and he bledβbled and wept with the same raw, warm red that kissed the ground he bore his hands into, searching for a place to rest. heβs bitterβall of him, ash on the tongue that speaks his name as though it was worth being spoken at allβand gods, he feels pathetic clawing at the moss, silently begging to be good enough for someone, anyone, even the earth below. would it take me, if i asked? itβs silly, he thinks he hears a reply rooted in the soil that clots beneath his fingernails, but itβs barely there. he has to wonder if heβs imagined it all as he sits back on his heels, breathing ragged. not yet. not now.