Alexa Laing-Moore
relationships regret
relationships regret
Death Camp for Cutie
in my chest, a mass grave:
overflow’n with putrid cadavers
I wrecked in practicing perfection.
this one has no eyes—I took them
to gaze beyond the horizon.
this one: no hands. I took
all he had to give*.
for that fellow, yes, that one near the top?
I dragged him through salt seas and picnicked
with the carrion (carry-on?) birds.
we dined on his heart, made terrine with his
parts.
my chest smells like rot,
and shit,
and disappointment.
*including his golden watch.