Unwashed bodies and third day hair. Cosmetic chemicals waft through the air.
Empty tea cups and food crumbs scattered
here and there, like feelings, bouncing
off of sedentary auras.

Quickly, drop sus cosas before
they realize you don't live en este casa;
fool yourself. Soul trickery.
Listen to the tick of her heartbeat --
she is alive, like her, like my, like your
breath. Slow. Irises dead, muerte
beaming through your cloth of insecurity.

We see the humanity under your soul.
Hidden, right beneath that black hole, there is something
further concealed.
Congealed.
Pasty white, lack of sunlight, look, see there!
That's caring.
Let me stab it.
Es muerte.

You are one of us now,
breathing. Finally. Through nostrils deeply
smokey incense clogs sinuses --
she chokes on tongue instead.
Hiccuping out compliments. Honestly, the first time
not casting a line for a nicety back
honestly.
She is one of us now.
Fit one more in bed.
We can squeeze.
Sleeping, head to feet
Weekend, sabado,
anything is possible
if we just
stop caring
about ourselves.