like meat picked from the bone—
he was never like you.
Watching him now,
he’s barely a man.
Not the look.
He could be a fucking catalog model,
Oxford button-down and goddamn khakis.
His mind, rather,
is a twisted landscape of wretchedness.
He drives slowly—
he can’t afford to be pulled over.
In the trunk,
Warm and wet and coppery,
its power a form of fuel
as much as the unleaded in the tank.
It’s enough to carry him through the night.
he’ll need a top off.
he loves it when they scream.