Small

The dark. Science in her breathing. A catastrophe. Of men. Arranging their needles. Cures not needed. A campaign of flesh for the new disease. Little cancers on her fingertips. And the vaccines that come from knowing. Alone is not temporary.

The art of the child is that the woman never remembers how she came to know. These essentials. Of survival. The art of the child is that the colors happen slowly. So many graves to dig. Too few funerals. It wants to be saved, but I can't.

Spilling my pulse into corpses. Looking forward to being eaten by the zombies. Isn't that just like the woman. And the child. To prefer the sacrifice.

Drawing on cardboard. The poor man's epiphany. I'm here. Now what. Tearing away the color. Flesh. Like melting crayons. Reaches the edges. Eventually.

It's all filled in. Now what?

Love. Like contact lenses. Too close to the eye.

I can see everything. and nothing.

I could blame the sky, but the rain would not stop falling.

Small. Isn't that what we are?