The Practicals of Grief

Her tits were soft cooked eggs. Her eyes were sausages. Trays of skin. Stacked. Plates breaking. In accusations of skin. Dirty enough. Don't you think? Cans of bacon grease on the counter. Pretending she was there. In theory. Or practice. Or anything she could call constant.

Little gods on their totems. Drawing the dot. In puddles of meat. All the dead things that make us alive. Empty pens like Used condoms on the carpet as the words fail her. Little women. Littler men. The abstract. The conditions of seldom like paper cuts.

Open. Unbleeding skin. In need of nothing but time to fuse it back together.

She said she was over it and started counting the days until forver. Like any one hurt must do if time is to be their compass. She started walking away from where she had begun. Trusting the advice of broken men. Because who knows better what not to love?

Red riding hood tells the wolf to wait for her, but she won't be eaten by him.