You’re onto me. You’re watching me so closely, it hurts. Must you tower over me so menacingly? My face drowns, ensanguined. Stop. Your petals are piercing my back, drenching me in sweat. Like a frightened hare, I start to run. Past you, past the horizon, past my rumination. I can’t stop. Cascading down my brow is the salt from his wounds, his pained face is a blurred memory fighting my lungs.

I didn’t kill him.

The alibi is centremetres away from my tongue; the words are stuck at the back of my throat and they’re choking me. I didn’t choke him. My hands are cut and numb from his teeth gnashing my fingers in retaliation… but I didn’t choke him. You’re looking at me again, I said to stop.

Run faster. Faster.

The trees have become green noise, the spirals and fuzz turn, turn, turn closer to my face. The acne on my temples burn and I find myself pleading at the poppies — _“I didn’t kill him!” _As if they can spare me. The wind is pushing my eyelids shut whilst I try to creep them open. My eyelashes are scorned from his attempts to burn them away. His knee was against my vertebrae, I heard my spine crack.

He was _going_ to kill me. What could I do?

I stop at the fork in the road. Look, I don’t have to prove anything to you, left or right? It won’t matter either way. My stomach crushed into itself when I saw his face freeze. He was a lively one. I shouldn’t of killed—

I’m taking a left. I suggest you look away.