Harvest

It makes you feel eery. You place the foot on a pillowy ground, while soft blades tickle you, a baby fingers against your wooden skin. Transparency is a lie, your sinews swell in just saying the word.

Teary drops of sweat envelope the crest of your stubborn forehead. A blood, changing colors like a traffic light on a busy Trafalgar square, you dare to empty your mouth. Folded beneath, some words are stuck, finely tucked reaching your elbows as you lean against my chest. The quest to You has just began.

Deboning is my favourite part. Enriching your voice with screams, too satiated to subside, too large among the crowd to hide. I collect all tiny tissues in a handkerchief for later.

It made me sadder seeing you float in the mercy of my fingers. A syringe is small, a knife undoubtfully friendly. My tools never disappoint.

You are hard to fool. A trout cradling in a river grass, peddling the pebbles, you grasp for air. The crater of your naval eruption is a Holiday in Rome. Ecstatic, euphoric, dismantled reality on the tips of your brown-eyed cheeks lose the potency.

I put my trembling hand bellow the wings, imprisoned in the rib-cage of your life. Slowly and gently I dispatch You in a jar so I can admire my prey from a far.  

People come and stare at a windowsill, wondering if it’s fake, but that doesn’t lessen my despise. I smile.

Now I finally have a heart to break.

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