Art by Grayson Burke

the best part of every story is when it doesn’t start. 

black-rimmed fingers clench the neck of an unwanted beer. 

he’s not supposed to be 

 this much of a f a _ l u r e 

he’s not supposed to be 

the cicadas are booing him 

again. 

loose eyelids try to ignore 

what’s keeping them from closing 

in on why he can’t keep a w _ m _ _, or a toothbrush, 

or a brush, 

or a fuck; 

there’s an empty prescription of anti-disappointments on the desk 

in front of him. 

It’s behind him now. 

a microwave was stopped at ? : ? ? a while ago maybe; 

the booing rises 

as the commonly cursed groan of 

his wooden chair lurches in 

side his ears as he _ _ _ _ _ to get up.

his pestilent essence always knows better than to separate from the last thing 

that would put Up with 

his dusty ass.