Target Practice

The mannequin on the cardboard stairs. Pretending to ascend. The empty skin. Hard and hollow. Cracks as I press on it. The same as the glass eyes she uses to see me with.

I would tell her stories. As if there was a difference between. Her and me. I would goad the monsters. Because fear always made sense to me. Little slivers caught in the skin that keep it from healing.

The eclipse coming as suddenly as their clothes came off. The hunt in layers. Difficult to undo. The smell of meat in the dogs' noses. As they suffered through the ethics of the kill.

The judge in her robe. Contemplating. My various futures. The bullets in her pocket looking for a chamber. Or any some excuse to hurt someone.