Garbage Refined
3/8/26
Nightmares patrol the periphery, hot on the scent of guilt. The phantom stands guard bedside, ready to drag me to hell. I sold my soul in place of the innocent.
“Dear Phantom, is hell anguish unending?”
“What else could it be?” he leaked.
The foundation buckles, dismissive of the stucco patchwork.
Joan Didion knows the difference; I do not.
If the devil gri…
