Hog

It's in your bones.

I guess I'll rot beside the focus of the blue sun.
I find my time wasted more often than not.
I will breathe movement in the future, while leaving you a skeleton with a party hat.
It's time I stop leaving dry water for the cats outside.
It's time I begin to empty  my stomach through murals along the bridge of brums and whistles.
I miss the country side, the cows and the trees, creeks under plateaus of earth, grey silky bodies moist in the dirt .
Her primary reason for suicide was a vague dream she had a week ago.
The smell could have killed you she would say.
Heretic psalm, money folders, amplifiers. strips of plywood framing my door like a bowl of rice an execution.
   She's dissatisfied with our sexual ambitions and that's fine with you,

Because you understand how it is to awake only to find your best friend dead in a cage.

Author's Note

Ignore.