The Silos Are a Safe Place

Shaky hands reach up steel ladders, stretching towards a sky sprinkled with planets and stars.

Nervous laughing as a fear of heights becomes ridiculously obvious. Stronger arms and steadier hands keep the anxiety at bay. Focus on the sky. Don’t look down. Tuck yourself into the metal rungs and breathe, babygirl.

Flicking ashes off of an orange-tipped cigarette. I held it up to the sky and closed one eye, creating yet another glowing planet to keep the lonely stars company. The nicotine high gave the silo life, gave my brain an excuse to giggle and huddle closer to the devil.

They say that alcohol is liquid courage to convince lovers to bed, but I disagree. Alcohol is liquid stupidity, naivety, desperation.

I say cigarette is ashen courage, smoke that clouds over the butterflies and makes blunt sentences easier to pronounce.

The devil and the reaper frequent silos late at night. They travelled to the angels but forgot their counterparts come at night with eerie whispers and echoes over rushing water. They travelled to where the legend walked and spent an hour scaling brick archways and spinning in the field. They drove on an endless ride for a caffeine fix and the ride home was silent, hands held together like the nervous breaths trapped in their lungs.

I kissed him.


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