If, eventually, everything dies,
and absolutely nothing matters,
Then there is only freedom.

A fragile
Empathy
sticking the cracks together
between skin cells,
and a freshly minted
vibrato
working together
in a web
that pulses bright through
the fields of these people

The way you scrapped me
solidly so the meat on my bones is picked clean.
Malingering with the charm of a sweet cream
but filled with distaste underneath,
neatly putting me in the box beneath your bed.

I find it unweildy, inconvenient;
To be carrying such a scene
in parts of me that you outlined without knowledge
They tell you to say grace before a meal
or at least wipe your hands first.