My thighs are missing. They are not lost; I know where they have gone; I watched them go. My thighs have become soup. Black fires heat and melt, there is bubbling and in the fat that dwindles and is eventually claimed by water I watch black move to black move to black. I believe I am blind. My hands are shadows to my eyes; nothing moves. The voices I hear come from the air, faces I cannot see, empty pots clamoring for thigh soup. I am handed a spoon. I consume myself. There is goodness somehow inside. The children I have heard, hearing their voices pool up as puddles from around my knees, they are there and then gone and we eat roast and the men and women laugh and laugh. I eat and am not tickled, not amused. My insides have tilted, are listing towards my heart, where the rupture first began. Excuse my bodily references, I have nothing left to give. I have gone extinct in fact, missing from myself. I would post signs to trees but there are no writing utensils here except shards of coal, and my notes are nothing but black on black, shadowy.