The Whims of Bitches

The night comes in sobs. A deluge of trials ripe with evidence. she dissects the hours. until each breath is only a molecule. Determined to prove everything is as small.

The sky moans. Dense with futile storms. The sky bleeds rain. From a deep wound.

Children dancing on the graves of jackals.

Her dreams bustle with the dusty chalkboards and lazy ghosts. Arrogant guns presume bullets are enough.

the theater rises from the tenement of her choices. a curtain across an ambivalent stage. a play too sure of itself.

her audience an autopsy.