Sometimes we are ghost and lovely and putrid spilling out the ribcage. The history of horror is also a bracket enclosing a moth and the moth devours everything. Beautiful in the aftershock. Then the entrails yanked from its seams. Full laugh. The snare drum and cymbals crash. We gnaw on happy members of the audience. Unexpectedly, they find this arousing. All these years of practice. We flutter from town to town. Selling our tiny armors and a little sex. Fooling everyone with our slight of hand. A little red in the mouth and vigilance. With every razored lick, renouncing a sacred memory of flesh.