Lydia Black
Deep in Cream April Edition
She does taxidermy. She stands there holding some sorry stuffed bird she just finished, like she just showed you the middle finger made out of feathers. The thing's beak is open in this fucked-up squawk like it never stopped yelling. Her apron's got dried blood on it and some fluff stuck near her tit. She's smiling like the bird's face matches the joke perfectly. She shows me the empty eyes first, tells me how she scooped them out with a spoon, how she cut through the skull and yanked the brains out in one long gross string. The wings stay pinned out stiff, fake-dying pose, ready to catch wind that stopped decades ago. She steps closer, swinging that corpse like a trophy. She wants me to touch the feathers where she glued them back on, like the old skin just needed her hand and a little patience.
She does taxidermy. She stands there holding some sorry stuffed bird she just finished, like she just showed you the middle finger made out of feathers. The thing's beak is open in this fucked-up squawk like it never stopped yelling. Her apron's got dried blood on it and some fluff stuck near her tit. She's smiling like the bird's face matches the joke perfectly. She shows me the empty eyes first, tells me how she scooped them out with a spoon, how she cut through the skull and yanked the brains out in one long gross string. The wings stay pinned out stiff, fake-dying pose, ready to catch wind that stopped decades ago. She steps closer, swinging that corpse like a trophy. She wants me to touch the feathers where she glued them back on, like the old skin just needed her hand and a little patience.