there’s a small amount of human skin in every morsel of food,
and it makes me wonder if in some small way,
we’re all a little bit of a cannibal,
but we don’t want to admit it because it seems too gross,
too taboo,
or not entirely true
dancing across a field of dew,
barefoot,
stepping on twigs and anthills and mud,
finding purchase on the curve of a flat world
bending to the weight of
bones cracking in the wind,
fireflies spiraling in an invisible language,
pantomiming eloquence,
little blades of grass cutting deep into
my heel, as i crawl to safety
and pass out
living in a made-up world
with fictional non-playable characters
filtering through with stock phrases and expressions
plastered over their faces,
pretending to be alive,
pretending to be something
Fred Aiken Writing 