It Will Start This Way
The people who are your people leave you. A matted feather, you, unfloating, hollow at the core. Say not a word and stay for the drinks, hope the spirits spread you apart, a plumage to dry on the wind.
Irish Eye Patch
To feel again he hooked his knuckles across ridge of his cheek. Twice more and for lack of bone structure the blood pooled and made colors red, blue and brown at the socket. It took about a day, and he felt everything in all that time.
The father saw the picture again, big tears in red, a jagged oval of hairless skull. He tore off the corner with the crayon name and rolled it, snorted the blue crush until his dead son stopped drawing.
I feel fine. It was hard for awhile, but I'm good now. The flowers shine again. All that shit. I'm not crying over television shows, the cuts have healed over and I've stopped picking at them. This one on my leg I didn't do so I don't count it.
She was the last left. When she slept, her false teeth fell sideways, pushed out her lips, a death frown. When she woke, that was his hope. When she woke.
Point A, Point B
This time here, it is how he thought it would be. A rush of legs pumping and arms reaching outward, the space between him and his people closing. A jagged line from start to finish, scars gone, blood still as mud in his veins.