their flesh succumbed to the weight of inconsequentiality. eagerly eroding into an indiscernible hole infested with rot. each crevice lubricated with someone else’s dreams, incapable or unwilling to hold our own. the mutilation is disregarded by anyone unfortunate enough to look, favoring instead the lifeless wall behind. our fingers; drawn to the wound, probed its tainted warmth. aiming to feel what they once felt. or perhaps to pry the flesh further into a state of unhealing. hoping the spoil would manifest on our own dying limbs. because spilled blood qualified as banal acknowledgement. because shared destruction is still shared. because our savior was freshly paved asphalt. our salvation was digital ketamine. our afterlife was an unreciprocated orgasm. we’d die someday too, and hope our wounds would be explored like theirs.
