Butterflies in the Mortuary

the numbers are stolen from sleeping victims. weak doses of drug scarcely sufficient to offer us when. the math is easy. stray birds shiting on the square. the division is different. the scrape of fangs on her faces as she closes her eyes. the howl of hunger keeping the predators awake.

the numbers are loaned to us. but sun, moon and apathy. she multiplies the monsters and subtracts the years. the desperate equations of a child without a trail. Left amongst the trees and the barren. To suffer any exit it can find.

There are portions. The sum. In black tongues. The remainder something else all together. Feeble choices fortified by the muscle of touch. The struggle of empty skin to break free of these fragile bones.

there are numbers. they always change. they never do. blinking obituaries. determined to prove the math. that is overlooked by flesh and bone.