none

the butcher's shop - it reeks of slaughter. in the back room, it is refrigerated,
and they store vials of scarlet blood on the shelves. next to them are stacks
of fish eyes, but those do not taste nearly as nice.

at night, i like to half-close my eyes and wrap my fingers around my throat.
"hello, asphyxiation," i say, and through a screen of my own eyelashes i see that
there is a crucifix hanging on my bedroom wall, and i think about my friend from
elementary school who made me a collage from church pamphlets.

(when i was young, i fastened a 'vacancy' sign to my skull in the hopes of
attracting religion, but i no longer have room to believe in a god because it is
filled with meat hooks where i hang my rotting thoughts.)

i shut my hand in the clothing dryer this morning;
the skin now recoils from my knuckles to expose stark bones. upon seeing it
i want to vomit, but that is only because it is beautiful, isn't it?

there are bees trapped in my larynx and i cannot speak, not even to the
priest in the confessional. there is a christmas tree in my room festooned with
dead chain lights, and it is october. there are things called final thoughts, last words,

and maybe that's what these are? (and sometimes i rub my lips with roxanol and
slather my skin with cold air, saying "this won't hurt a bit, this won't hurt a bit.")