The Art of Dying

His eyes drawing in thick tipped markers. His words tracing at best. The perfection lions. As they form their circle. To cut off the weakest. The dead of cubs in recent past. In rotting bones. Lost in the philosophy of animals. A vaccination of words slipping secrets of the disease into my veins. To cure me perhaps. Or else to prove it isn't fatal.

Just a moth caught in between our tv and the screen door. As anger began to fondle the weaker of our fears. In brief love affairs with nicotine. In fits of unprotected sex with alcohol. They all became more real than I wanted them to be. Actual people. As flawed as I was. Am. No one I could ever hope would cure me of myself. No one I could ever hope to save.

It was when I was drunk that I first saw them as they really were. Divided by zero. Rabbits caught in the farmer's fence. Liars sharpening their truths. In armors made of skin. In the easiest of words to say. In the most stubborn of touches. Dependecy swells. In the squawk of bad songs we are drawn to when. In the pose of tired models as we try to draw.

What it is we think we see.

What saw us when our eyes were closed.