cows always win
Kieran Fu
you were seagrams whiskey branding my throat and i was your
cattle. sorting you into four compartments of a stomach: from most to
least digestible. one for blurting “i love
you”, one for backhanding, “i’d love
to fuck you if you weren’t so needy”, one for boasting, “i’m in love
with the girl i ditched you for”, one for berating, “i love
it when you can’t speak.” still i would graze, as i always
had–feet grounded and eyes skyward, promising
myself tomorrow the sun would finally come
back. you would put down your pitchfork instead
of poking me with it and push your flannel sleeves up your arms instead
of into my mouth. we would watch the sunset instead
of the sunrise, fear the darkness instead
of craving it, and entwine our words instead
of twisting them. but the field we tread was soft from rot instead
of tenderness, and so i left you there, cropless, the muddy tracks
of my feet fading as i found steadier ground.
