spoken against the window pane,

your breath,

like flapping shingles of a roof in agony.



and,

tethered there in your hands,

inorganic flesh,

spews from open fingers -

curdled,

rotten.



you couldn’t look.



you couldn’t look.


this room is a cemetery.

this room holds only the dead.



in a brief moment,

the glass clears, the fog has lifted.



outside, bodies of decomposing trees

string their arms through the hairs of a setting sun,



and he,



he looks up at you with open eyes as the faucet drips,

the pipes creak,



the kettle, softens your futile screams with a thermal hiss.



how unbecoming of this boy,

exposing his insides with a lifeless heart in his chest.