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| My right hand strokes along the sleeve, the cuff. The neat soft cotton quivers, rattling the teacup. My right hand offers, is neat, is quiet. My left hand shakes, is white, is cruel. The set of my left hand's mouth, a grimace between spaced fingers, is spare, and mean. My right wrist bruised, and banged, and harmed. Concealed. My left wrist grins, and leers, and squeals. Its bloody mouth a scab, a sash, a suit. My right hand dies, complete, contused. Is strangled, then buried, then farmed, consumed. |
| shudy |
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| by Chloe Meakin |