Harvest. Recall. Rot.

we have turned the old crafts inward

scalpel to skin, scythe to wheat, we harvest ourselves to feed the thing we’ve deemed hungrier than the numbers of our own starving

and when we ask, the thing feeds us our own bones

(and wouldn’t you know, we love the way they taste)

we feast as an ouroboros

a closed loop in which nothing new is ever created

(can you feel the atrophy setting in?)

we lap at the dust like dogs

and forget to get off our knees

our reflection becomes a confessional

where it learns to replicate the way we hate

a new form of incest. a new form of glutton.

we ask it to describe the sound of the rain

we recall nothing

(can you smell it yet?)

we’re rotting in here