all day, we writhe.

watch the flesh,

bacon sizzling in scorched,

grotesque earth,

flecks and specks of

granular skin and sand,

melding.

this is the

break down.

the snapping of bone,

muscle slurry,

proteins dissolving.

a mass.

is this all that will be left

of my story, in the end?

is that biologic swill my ink

or my paper?