Fire worms, I want to eat them.
Burn my face alive so that I will finally feel silence—a scalded tongue, drinking yellow-orange organisms as if coal could help us hear the hum of cicadas and crickets. The humans murmur, complain of cold, and the moon sits round and dumb, but his mind is on the tundra bun of joy he sends his children, but they deny it as horror—or fear. The flames are dead skin cells, flaky crumbs that will become some layer of dirt, someday, and I wish I knew if that whooshing was the river or cars, and that fact alone determines the breath: the tripod of
The fire worms dance until they die, their purple hue of scream-life is only a moment, but it’s enough.