149/365: Words Are Like an Autopsy
There was this book.
I had heard it was good,
that it would be like a good meal,
and I tried,
but twenty-seven pages in
I felt my face cave in,
and I fell over sideways in the back of the car
like a child who had had too much, too much.
How is the book? the driver asked.
It's destroying me, I said.
Other people's hearts are too much for my heart.
Mmm, sounds like quite a read, the driver said.
I haven't read another word since,
aside from menus and the weather report.
Words are like an autopsy on the waking dead,
and I can't do anything for them.