The Evolutions of Remorse

Dead is dead. Isn't it? Like so many dreams suffocated by empty beds. The one-eyed teddy bear strangled by a child's love.

It's real. Isn't it.

Just a little math. Add the piss and subtract the shit. The skin is all that's left. Of vague epiphanies. The shards of candy that were her lips. Caught in my teeth. The wolf that huffed and puffed from inside the straw house. That was her pussy. All blown down. All the pigs devoured.

Only left. The lonely bricks still standing. An empty house. Fingerprints in the mortar disappearing as it cures. Saved. Not saved at all. The world outside it panting to get inside. The nothing inside it so calm.

Reasoning with the story. Certain it is hopeless. She goes back. Minutes. Years. On stilts made of flesh. She stands over it. Watching the ants toil. To ensure that nothing changes. She stomps. In her concrete dress. Waiting for it to harden.

She goes as far back as she can. And she tries. To manipulate the picnic basket. But no matter when she finds herself. She's always too late to change their minds.