A sea of black floods the empty white streets. It looks like the other
side already.
Blank shining light, softish words, reunion. They follow quiet behind
me, hungry, piggish and hankering, beyond starving for just a sliver of
my cooked-off heart. Fresh off the yard smoker, well fucking done.
They want me pink still, in the thick of it.

Sorry I’m all bone now, tight skin hiding beneath a midnight dress and
family stones — pretty like her, and rests in a wooden chest too. I grip
her box of sleep with an iron will. My violet fingers fail and she rises.
The buzzards in their suits really love it. They don’t love me, they love it,
this whole thing.