Description
we had our holes
but always made more
some sliding from our mouths
like candles from a cake
celebrating something that never happened
eager to experience the same demise
our parents did
seeking purpose in sheets
whose wrinkles grew in unison with our own
whose probing fingers
massaged indifference into muscles
already swollen with feathers
from luxury pillows
that promised to euthanize the regret
boiling with last night’s frozen dinner
our sores were fed
because their festering
propelled us
differently than scab or scar
because we were never sure
those would come anyway
because rotting was still motion
because we shared the same disease
and didn’t have much else without it
because our tongues couldn’t pry warmth
from healed flesh anymore
because our throats longed for water and not blood
but it was all we had
so we drank
