unlovely
BY MITCHELL KING
there are many paths home and few of them are safe in the literature of birds Death does not make them a good person—I have not misspoken my mouth is ugly but free of lies Michael holds my hand but lets go—I tell him to—at midnight I leave his house and vomit him in the parking lot: in the literature of birds: there is a migration west of winter—and Gays just want to have fun! In the parking lot I wonder if I’ve stopped looking if I will and what happens after—the moon’s doomlight sharpening— but not crescent, not quite.