Trifles.
Bits of bone
Cleaned and picked over
By your insatiable eyes
And your ever-irritated ears.

The fall was evident, I think,
In the mutilation within,
My own knife in my rib,
Aimed at an atrium

That seemed so aloof
In the deals we had made
For what it would take
To make it okay.

It's not okay.

But scavengers take
Whatever they find
Despite what the shape,
or the form, or the kind.

I ask that you wait
For some semblance of truth
To slay these suspicions
That I've made for you.