What it’s like

For when we murder
We always keep it in the family
For friend, foe, or stranger we are all children of nature
Laying on the street side
I’ve been there too
Stiff with rigor mortis, crippled with rigor mortis
Left by a passive, inconsequential, negligent hand
I’ve bled, and have been carelessly thrown to the shoulder

The storm drains are more of my blood than they are rain
Rubbed into the pavement
a gritty slushy paste
Blood clots, and tangled nests of hair
The ones too focused on the mirror
To look back
They are the night drivers in my life too
Weary eyes
Careless flash of phone screen
And murderous trivialities
Rushing to dinner parties,
And horny house cats
Legs stretched out on the patio
Howling at the moon.

Surely someday
That domestic beauty
Will know just as well as the rest of us
What it’s like to be road kill.

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