petrichor falls apart,
ripping the fabric off,
sheets fall to the ground,
covering feet not meant to
walk across this sacred ground
that doesn’t seem to be mapped out
yet,
though i’m sure that might change
quite soon
there’s a line i keep following,
though it’s not a line that i’m aware of,
nor is it particularly deterministic,
nor random,
but a loose thread being tugged at,
violently, and without remorse,
until the line and everything following it,
aka me,
is disastrously splayed out in the middle of the kitchen
in a crime scene that no one is responsible for,
because no one else
saw what happened,
and that’s the story they’re sticking to
i begin by taking out the ax from storage. it’s not an impressive ax. it’s rusted. a crack splinters down the side of the handle. it needs to be sharpened. it needs to be replaced. but i’m sentimental.
i bring the ax down. miss. but not entirely. blood trickles out.
Fred Aiken Writing 