The duck's tail and other emptiness

I have yet to see the core of me dying. Even as I burn the duck’s tail and watch it melt into the earth, I have no wish of turning. Is it the faraway tree you see? Is it the slow-motion capture of the reckless splatter of dark unsweetened tea? You post-construct your reactions as if they were instinctive. Now it comes as second nature and you don’t even know who you are. Tear it down forever more and never be receding. I have no wish of turning. I only have to go faster than the speed of light.

They pull in their belt one extra notch after another to keep from feeling the hunger in their empty stomachs, so I spend all my time walking with my arms crossed firmly over my chest to squeeze it down, to keep from feeling the tightness tugging at my empty heart. I cry and you threaten to bring in the men in white coats. I don’t mind, as long as I can ask them to wrap the strait jacket around my chest three times and pull tight one notch after the other.

Is the shadow upside down, or do you just have your shirt on inside out? Don’t sit there propping up your chin with your upturned palms; adjust the earnestness lopsided on your face and smile at me as I strike the match against the side of the box and hold it ceremoniously to the tail.