A thick stench of seven day sweat sleeping in the cotton-weave blouse.
Imitation, and rightfully so.
Borderline blashpemy under the confession of this night.
The taste of olives and a clear burning liquid scoring your tongue
and filling the empty hole in your chest.
Sloshing like an animal's snacking in the bottom of a tub.
Apple cores, peach pit, rotting air of meat.
Tiny little drying raisens in the place where eyes should be.
Empty sockets of all that remains under the heat of the sun.
Author notes
so so tired
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