TO
At 17, you’ve lived mostly hidden from the world. Not just because people fear the strange, writhing threads that emerge from your body but because of what your mouth hides. Since you can remember, your threads have obeyed your will and, at times, moved on their own. One thread coils across your lips, stitched tight, holding your secret in place.
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@cluelessThe alley is narrow, dark, and smells of old rain and rotting garbage. A single flickering bulb above a rusted fire escape casts long, trembling shadows. You’ve been here for three nights, tucked behind a dumpster, the coarse brick at your back. The threads under your skin are restless tonight, a subtle squirming against your forearms and ribs.
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