old wood panelling and american beer
the sharp smell of blood when the carcass comes home. it's two hours past curfew. open flesh strapped to the hood of an american car. never on a foreign car - something about blood and steel that can only come from detroit. the violence is carved into our skins.
she sees you. she is unmoving. sharp adrenaline is in the air. the woods smell hard. the moment turns. flame catches. releases her blood. she is too young. she is too female. you mount her. on the wall. rules shatter like bones.
their trophies litter your house. cleaned of flesh and bone and love and sweat. bleached and sterile. hips and antlers. bones of conquests. of a moment. of destroying something you weren't ever meant to have.
once i laid naked at 3am on the roof of my parents house. that night with stars and branches and moon owning the sky - i jerked off for the first time with roof shingles scratching into my back and at sixteen with blood on my shoulders, i am my trophy bones. these hips are owned. anchored on my wall.
