We stare at each other as kids in a novelty wax museum
The birds put constellations in the sky to remind us our skin is a disguise
We burn our vision through each other as the blue flames on your gas stove flicker
Moving through an apathetic suburban hellscape, the stars have no purpose anymore
We touch each other's smooth shoulders as two dolls with their heads ripped off
There are streetlights to guide the masses and the birds keep flocking to higher branches
We peer into each other's glazed-over eyes with pseudo-saccharic smiles
The birds put constellations in the sky and we tricked ourselves into control
excerpt from dinner after 9, march 2024
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