Tolstoy

Patterns. Maggots in the dream. Absolve the flesh. Science. Vultures snatch away. Each evolution. Science inside. Turning good meat into carrion. Vultures. With long necks. Reaching deep. To scoop out our innards. Though we're only close to death.

The science. Of Waiting. Sneaking our lives away. Picking at. The thin scabs. A garnish of gauze. A gravy of blood. An Imagined feast that doesn't come.

The dream. The science of want. In hot bursts of bulbs. Left on too long. We grab the dark ones. To change them. Unaware of how hot they still are.

The manner. In which I choose them. The lies I'd like to believe. There is a process. Culling the weak branches. Sorting the soot from the ashes. Subtleties impossible to explain.

The physics of when. How deep. The conundrum of if. I pulled the correct lever. Am I where I belong. Or just somewhere all failed experiments end up. Am I the snake that spoiled Eden. Or just the girl who was foolish enough to trust him.

Flicking the switch to off I wait. For a sign that I've gone anywhere. The numbers change, but these bodies take time to catch up. I confess. To the windows. That I thought more would be different. I hate the rain. It never listens to me.