Brick Houses

Three days later. We fed again. On the stale confessions of empty beds. I watched her. Work the formulas. Wrestling with ratios. Apathy to outrage. In tiny bones delicate enough to digest. She bit down. Swallowing my parenthesis.

Working the ghosts. The failed geometry of unlabelled boxes. As she explored shrinking attics. Massaging the meat. In charred remains. Letting the dead things tug on her hair.

Her dungeon. More salvation than prison. Her hours. All collisions. With the crumbling houses of pigs.

Days later. She's still waiting. For the wolf. Building her time machines with broken pencils.