Holes

Cadavers on the walls. Smelling softly of desperate men. Open sores in his timelines where vagrant hours fester. Shadows on the bed. Fingers striking ambivalent keys. Her breathing. Just another songs he can't quite play.

The fat of words in her throat. Rain paused on the glass. The storm awaits her next command. The shrug of the pillow against her head. Alone at last. Nothing to spoil the villains' coup. Fallen always. Now they can see it.

Needles in her fingers. Calculate reality. In the distant hums of wagging dicks. And the stutters of broken men. She drags out the scale from between her legs. And waits for him to notice the blood.