Trojan Horses

This the barter is. Hour for hour. Symptom for symptom. Red price tag on a white, white dress. As it flows between her thighs like wind against leaves too ready.

This is the sound. Solace grinding its teeth. Biting down on the rawest parts of the meat. The hunger swelling beneath loose clothes. As her shoulders drop and the fallacy relents.

Wearing life as a blouse. Buttons and holes mismatched. Tuck it in. Adjust the collar. It still won't fit right.

Flow the sleeves in smooth ripples as how it is to remember. Certainty discarded. The smooth yellow spikes that denial forged. A telegram was all there was between yourself and her, but it was sound enough.

Cool terminals transmitting heat with every cycle. Effortlessly redundant.

Armor abandoned for a taste of that steel.

No wood. No disguise.

Just to welcome defeat.