You fucking sell-out. You mascot of the butchery of your people. They will be stripped, skinned, cut and burned, all while you wave and giggle and laugh and wear the human’s clothes ill-fittingly. Mankind will laugh at the abortion of fashion that you will approximate, as you hold a sign advertising the need for more death of your brothers. Keep waving. Keep laughing. Keep telling me that you are only paint on a wooden board. Explain that you are not real. I get it. Some part of me does love you, though, waving to people to a road no one goes down any more, in front of a store that has co-opted the past and lived longer than it. Keep standing in front of the beer distributor, the diner, the bank. And I’ll keep looking for you.

Photo - S
Words - S