Sweaty

The man to my right believes he is a crow, and the words that he gawks label my frame in the memory of the woman behind me.

I am made of death, the former buildings of nature's cities, and the labor of pulled plumes. To me the world is made of chaos, weight, and confusion.

I am what holds and comforts, and "that thing" that he sat in the day she was taken back. We are a memory to which my contribution gives the most depth, for when he finally left, she stood, looking at me, wondering why I was so awful.

The world is full of chaos; I do not know why, except that my bones have been chiseled and my stomach stapled flat and for that I sit assured.