"41 degrees, wednesday night" by bill winchester
In the end they all become cardboard cut outs. The main character of a film from a few years back. Someone you used to kiss with your eyes closed.
grabbing both sides of the string, fingers turning blue
plucking out the leftovers
he didn’t brush
tasting like the insides of a dead pig
and onions growing legs.
if they fell out he’d buy new ones,
Don’t spell it out,
don’t bother me.
I want to stay in my garbage bag
full of chocolate sauce
I like grinding up my soul
like some sort of meat
to put in a fast food burger.
they are scratching outside with chalk
dry dust in cracked palms
with wet gloves
stuck to the pavement.
she tried to close her eyes
but there was a black circle in her sockets
with a shivering fingernail