Dense Portals in the Foreskin

I made my way through the meat. Myself getting cooked more than it.

We were pretending a picnic. With broken forks. And missing paper plates. No games at all. Except those we'd already lost.

I was remembering the curtains. This window once wore. Like faded jeans. Too tight to take off. Nervous fingers. Struggling with shy zippers. As we tempted those masks.

The weight of the glass as we would wrench them open. The rumble. Of open. Too loud to resist. The rush of breathing in the world out there. The little lies that made it possible for these memories to exist.

Dirty glasses on the eyes. Of myopic gods. That would tell us. This is our timeline. I could tell them that it's not that easy. To close the window. Once it's open. I could tell them that the lock is broken. But I doubt that they would listen.

I could reason with the wolf. Explain to him that the pig is deaf. But he wouldn't care. If it can't feel the predator coming. So be it.

I could complain that the glass is obvious. So cliched. But I don't lie that well. And this dress doesn't hide very much.

I wondered at the backdoor. How many steps there were. I thought. I can overcome the darkness. With sufficient warning. But the window has other plans. The proximiity of bariable gods. Created an impossible paradigm.

That stubborn window. Still open. Listening for. The raindrops. That used to make it laugh.