When Strangling a Friend Make Sure That He's Really Dead

Hear the camaraderie from fifteen feet away.
Two people. One interest
that is shared.
So it’s okay.

Two Glares.
Send them over. They’re all too flattering.

The talk,
the thoughts ring deep
within this body.

Filled with blue blood.

Look, it bleeds red
so easily.

Crimson flow dissected between the calluses on red-right hands.

But it's too late,
it’s receded beneath twenty unpainted fingertips.

Now, just listen to the blood beat,
bob,
pulse.

Breathe.

A mantra for terrified insides because their lungs are polished so bleakly.
And their livers limp longingly.
And pancreases stagger painfully.
And hearts that palpitate distastefully.
And two stomach to digest food dangerously.
And small intestines that pass black waste so inefficiently.

But outside, where lovely hands land effortlessly
and perfect lips part seductively,
two noses snort real quietly,

"Baby, you’re so good at pretending.”