we had our holes

we had our holes but always made more some sliding from our mouths like candles from a cake celebrating something that never happened eager to experience the same demise our parents did seeking purpose in sheets whose wrinkles grew in unison with our own whose probing fingers massaged indifference into muscles already swollen with feathers from luxury pillows that promised to euthanize the regret boiling with last night’s frozen dinner our sores were fed because their festering propelled us differently than scab or scar because we were never sure those would come anyway because rotting was still motion because we shared the same disease and didn’t have much else without it because our tongues couldn’t pry warmth from healed flesh anymore because our throats longed for water and not blood but it was all we had so we drank