sitting at the table of vultures
who understand nothing short
of negative numbers
I am an umbrella
sheltering my pride;
a resemblance of an unfortunate road kill mammal

and the stones that they shoot from their mouths
break through the damaged fabric, fall through my skull
right
down
to
my
ribs

they are fine picking at my
diseases like an unwanted autopsy
they are flashing torches at my retinas and I want to fucking
know why.  They will not find my secrets.

I have stitches over my
body like fucking cocaine lines
where every vulture wants to
snort my memories and emotions
through their nasal passages to their brains in an attempt
to understand something more than
negative numbers

No.
I’m fine thank you.
That’s enough.
I’m not hungry.
I am full.
I ate before I came.
I’ll be fine.
No.
and no, I don't fancy animal heart—
but you can stick your meat fork in mine.