What they did not see is that I am only bird bones.
Fragile and lifeless.
Feathers ripped away by the hungry.
Born into survival and not of grace.
Lay still and small. They will pass by.
Let down by their hopes of a put up fight.
Like a wishbone. Snapped with little pressure.
I lay draped in a body bag of mattress sheets. I am swallowed whole by the soil of the silk stitching.
My last articulated thought only being that some how these bones had been exposed by some quick and painless experiment.
Eyes open. Skin rotting. Eaten alive from the inside out.
Bare. Inert. Uninhabited.
This leather skin, stretching so very very thin.
Deepening the hollowed valleys of my depleting coffer.
My only remains are of fragile, lifeless, bird bones.
Ripped away by the hungry.