Look, I’m fine with this. I wasn’t going to make it forever. The zombies are relentless and my endurance has A.D.D. I can’t even have a decent cigarette break in the damn zombie apocalypse. The non-smokers don’t give me smug looks anymore. They just try and devour me. What I really want is for the zombie that eventually tracks me down to go for one of my plump thighs instead of my pulsing neck. Please, not the neck. Everyone I’ve seen go got it in the neck. And, if a zombie (who didn’t ask for this monstrous non-llife mind you) happens to indulge my one request somehow I hope my flesh will taste like applewood bacon. Smoked applewood bacon.
under the mask
there’s a gap
between the sweat
& lapse of fear
where light is
welcomed in if
it comes as rays
not as a flood
The crescent moon of coffee stained on the newspaper is all he reads.
Don’t take pictures of your food, please. If I really want to know what you’re eating I’ll dig through your garbage while you’re sleeping.
You assume you’ve wiped away all the sand you brought home from the beach yet it clings & clings to places you forgot exist.