(Written 20 May 2026 at 9:45 pm.)
My body feels like a crime scene
The kind at which experienced detectives on TV say to each other,
“It’s bad in there”
The blood spatter evidence is a mess
It’s on fabric
And on furniture
And you can’t tell which streams are from the commission of the crime
And which drops are from moving stuff around later
There are questions as to the victim
There is no whole body waiting to be identified
Though those clots look a lot like concentrated units of flesh torn asunder
Certainly, in this carnage,
Someone or something has died
Which part of me has gone into those nether shadows
Waiting to be mourned?
