Owl

We do not break him slowly. Our world is made of dust and glass that clatters down the rollers and up into our lungs. Our world is full of bright yellow lights and gin and maggots crawling out of busted beer cans back in storage. Our world is hot and loud and soaked in spoilt Chianti—sometimes birds get trapped up inside its rafters. We break him quickly and we do not let him linger. Our world is not big on forgiveness. Our world likes to swallow its meals whole and shit out the bones in one long, skeletal strand—something to admire, something to call our own.