Stage Names

I expected anything but sweaters. Layers of them. LIke icing gone rogue on birthday cakes. Candles no one had bothered to light. The crack in the corner of my lips begging to be bitten. It's the why that's always puzzled me. Why live like animals do simply because we were born. And yet find no fault with killing them.

He didn't have a scent. None that I can remember. But the twtitch of his eyes still comes back to me now and then. When I try to picture msyself atop him. Bearing down on that blade. Reality finding its footing in stretching skins.

I make my own pain. They are only the cutrains that decide when the scene will change. Characters stolen from deep inside. Lovers culled from rotting branches.

Fruitlessly talking to the dead.