debris psalm

The story did not end.

It was cut into obedience.

White bars fell first, clean as verdicts, splitting the breath between moments.

A hand raised. A face forming. A sentence almost—

interrupted.

The hero remembers what the reader cannot: there was once a direction.

Left to right, top to bottom, a promise of arrival.

Now the panels drift, unfastened.

Eyes repeat themselves. Mouths hover mid-word. Bodies echo across slivers like a signal refusing burial.

He tries to move forward but forward has been sectioned.

Every step meets an edge.

Every edge multiplies.

He is not flying. He is being parsed.

Color holds the last resistance— red insisting on urgency, yellow refusing collapse, blue carrying the ghost of sky through a corridor with no horizon.

Somewhere beneath the cuts a narrative still hums, low, continuous, like power behind a wall.

You can feel it more than follow it.

The woman’s face is larger than her story now.

Shock becomes architecture. Emotion becomes backdrop.

Nothing resolves.

Resolution was removed with the margins.

And still—

the fragments lean toward each other.

Still—

the hand reaches across a seam it cannot cross.

Still—

something like meaning tries to reassemble from the angles of impact.

Not whole.

Never whole.

But enough to spark.

Enough to suggest:

the story is not gone.

It is distributed.

It lives now in the space between pieces, in the tension that refuses to flatten, in the reader who stitches with their gaze and calls it understanding.

✦ END ✦