Ravaged,
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.
Precious cargo.

In the trunk,
blood seeps.
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.
This night.
By tomorrow,
he’ll need a top off.

God,
he loves it when they scream.