• tokillabibliophile 129w

    A Good Friend

    One day

    I woke up one night.
    Strangled my roommate slowly.
    I slept off again.
    Woke up in the morning.
    Hadn't dealt with the body.
    It's blue and bruised and still.
    So utterly still.
    Like a baby devoid of a care.
    Stuffed his gaseous existence in a black bag.
    Pulled.
    Tripped.
    Bumped.
    Threw him under a tin shade.
    A black log under silver metal.
    So still.
    I could feel his blue turning to black.
    The maggots bit his eyes off.
    So still.

    Someday

    My room is empty now.
    The sun shines through the solitary window.
    The dust swirls about in concentric circles.
    The books with yellowed pages smell of vanilla again.
    The wind tears about through lost corners.

    Today

    It's been days.
    The weather smells of moist earth today.
    The weather smells of pastel grey today.
    The weather smells of frayed edges today.
    I walk out in the impending storm.
    The tin shade holds a crumpled black bag.
    I peek through my half open door.
    My room isn't empty anymore.

    ┬ętokillabibliophile