GORE
i want to hunt you, or i want to be gored by your antlers. either way, one of us is getting fed.
and daddy never taught me how to shoot, all he ever said was 'run'.
now i'm out here, all alone, november woods calling out to me.
i sit myself on limping legs and joints rubbed raw and white, and i wait
i wait for you to come with all the mercy of a wild animal, no heaven and no morality.
paint me beautiful, say that i'm your boy, pinned to the pine by antlers to my neck.
rotted together and they'll never find my body; i don't wanna be a piece of meat on an evidence bag, a cop's promotion.
i wanna die yours, your gored boy.
mikey, october 22nd, 2025
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