A vulture picks at a scab I got from skidding my knee.
I can feel it’s beak dig deeper and deeper, almost reaching my bones.
I’m starving, licking my lips and clutching my stomach.
The vulture feeds me my own flesh.
I can taste you.
Pressed up against silver.
You taste of pulled hair.
Black curtains.
I can smell you as you go down.
Fumes of detergent slipping out the corners of my mouth.
I feel as if you belong inside of me. But you start to exude.
The vulture grabs you by the nape of your neck, and licks you clean.
I feel sick.
I wish someone would clean me.