i failed to see my shadow crawl across the lizards on the wall, her form a limestone sculpture in the sand. she stands like an iron monolith, bit by beetles until she moved from modern comfort to steadfast remains. but who am i but a rampart of regret? to stand in front of you and say "don't do it, don't do it, don't do that." you'll still stick your fingers in scorpion nests. and wait for the sting to remind you that i am beside you unless i am dead. i failed to see my fingers fall from the purple, swollen masses where my hands once protruded from my arms. i guess we learn what we deserve, and spit upon the rest. but we're only as pretty as the shimmering bugs on our necks after we all give up or die from trying to guess.