God had a hatchet. Blood on the blade. No surprise. We are culled from dead things. Life comes in tiny frailties too small to measure. From our thrones in heaven. God has chainsaw.
All I had was a question.
Want comes in quotients. Algebraic insomnias. Telling stories to the strange ghosts lost in my attics. I sleep because I am overcome by it. A blind threshold that reaks of deities. Only the product of fatigue. I weep for the flower that is lost. In the shadow of a house. People come in fractions of touch. Torn skirts and dirty underwear. Build their tunnel between her legs.
She sits on the edge imagining she can feel was isn't there. The pulse of strangers in a dying clock. The thrust of science in her broken heart.
God like a wet towel. under her feet. As she dries off. God at her throat squeezing hard.
Assuming she can still breathe.