Porkchops and Applesauce

Dead pigs or living ones are still pigs just the same. Covered in blood. Inside and out. To fuck. Swallowing everything whole. Only to puke up every piece of skin immediately afterward. Flies on the shit. There's a reason they call it stool. There's a reason for every idiom. Especially cum. They do come. Too close. And leave far too soon.

Telling the rain which way to fall and how hard.

Pink skin a perfect label for the white meat underneath. Dull claws scraping the chalkboard under his tongue. Too much life to ever hope to live. The words melting. Sweet. Like ice cream down her chin.

Microscopic earthquakes. Tiny fissures in her makeshift universe. The rumble of the house as the weather beats it into submission. No sleep tonight. No gods to waken with thwarted prayers. Just rain. On the glass. Just rain. Everywhere. Floods of skin comparing skeletons.

Pigs. Not being slaughtered. Slaughtering instead.

All Dead. Either way.