Managing the Corpses

dry paint protests in bouts of alcohol and callouses of nitrogen. the sweep of touch enumerated in barking dogs and infected cunts. we are all pieces. broken bits left behind after the world has come to an end.

the road winces under her footsteps. concrete chains try to give, but only crumble in the effort. wearing the machine, she notices how loose it is. soft and hollow like how she remembers not breathing. clenching her jaw. squeezing closed her lungs. bargaining with instinct. for a moment of death.

the vacant bed reminisces of strangers and lovers. in snickers of humility. all purple with confession. no shame. just wonder. at what might've been. had the sun relented and allowed her blindness sooner.

letters swell and break like the ocean in her head. thoughts drown and swim. amateur gods scribbling destinies in crayon. colors give chase. but the grey is home.

distant soldiers spill their bullets. into enemies unknown. the universe wheezes. having been struck. but hardly injured.

time plays along. a lazy game of hopscotch. with stones culled from her wounds.

fresh scars embrace an audience of vultures.