Only 7 sleepless weeks have gone by at the dining table. She tears a new fruit lovingly and violently apart, saying, we eat red, Pepe, little by little Pepe, hold the seeds. Unsure of when to spit, Pepe had harboured altogether fistfuls of them between his quiet cheeks for fear of resolving his ignorance, and the mess that comes with. Flowers now grow in his belly from the few accidentally pushed down the pipe. Pepe, mesmerised and repulsed by the ritual, finally spits.
The patient coagulated ruins take the shape of the cave that was his mouth, almost resembling the once pregnant pomegranate
everything this morning is fusing into a cloud of nice things. mama ended the night with a story about grandpa, and in between the drag i took between the last half-sentence and now, the sky has gone from dusk-blue to dawn-dawn. spotify is (at my bidding) singing tunes from my 14 and all the nice things come to mind; the birthday i’d been gifted five tall cans of Pringles, the time mama rang the police on a cloudy day up eleven storeys high because i was wailing, the clever trick she used to play where snickers bars would magically appear in the middle section of the refrigerator if u would just shut your eyes and count to 8. the time grandma fetched me to the highly competitive sandwich making competition and i’d convinced her that copious amounts of mini m&ms belonged in there with lettuce and tomatos to which she had lovingly said ‘yes’. an unrequited crush i don’t regret, the stubborn lingering smell of excessively sanitised dying people in the hospice too close to the light and too close to my heart. u can wish those things into a cloud and they fall like soft rain (very lovely)
the world spins madly on. yet in the pertinent words of the Goo Goo Dolls: i’ll become what u became to me
i haven’t been honest in a while; my body takes me to convenient places, my body tries to forget. i’ve feigned amnesia when passing through places i’ve been many times before. i blast songs like they’re melodies when they are affectively memories. the brutality of being honest shakes my tiny heart, and it is more than i can take. i will wake in the morning with the same old disease like it’s ever been before and thus will my tiny body ever try to forget
it has been two days since i’ve come home. after a stubborn bout of laundry, i clumsily knock over 3 trays of crayons (to which mama responds in her sleep and assaults me with an indistinct sound spelling annoyance, and it would take rearing too ugly a head for me to say: I forgive u, mama.. but i do. u likely did not mean to, as with all the other things u did not mean to do. watching ur sleeping body now, i have a lot of love for u), and properly pieced them back together in the unforgiving dim of daybreak
Two paths diverged in a wood and you can laugh at mine but i am going to sleep on yours. You laugh like a flower, teeth like teacups, eyes like –– ––, pure as the middle of a cucumber. I leave out every thing that actually happened and has been said. Two handfuls of soil joined by a mighty spit! Please laugh at mine but i am going to sleep on yours.