Lilting edge of mania bubbling against the tilt of grate and fate alike.
It shouldn’t tickle excitement to the tips of her fingers, shouldn’t round the corners and chase the last of her sanity down to the bone; and yet it does,
clumsy and lacking all the grace it could own, tilting and strange and bitter. It’s uncomfortable and numbing, running bites of protest all up her arms and down her spine.
But the protest never comes, never transfers from her tongue to her vocal cords.