putrefaction raze the book i failed to finish filling with words for someone who wouldn't have wanted them anyway is shedding its synthetic skin. what looks like leather is little more than a moldering metaphor i can hold in my hands, though i rarely have. when last we met, it left flakes of its flesh in my bed. so many bits of brown nothing to sweep away while glaring at a gift i never gave, scentless and serrated and streaked with dark dye. 251208 what's it to you? who go blather from