Stung Again

I don't want to change my name. You do it instead. I don't want to be someone else.

The oregano scent still potent in the armpits of her fingernails. The sausage flavor on her lips far from dissipating. She cried from the onions. Tears she never knew were there. Sniffly and weak. Her sleeves pushes up paste her elbows, still falling down into the muck at her wrists.

Raw pork. Pin chicken. In heavy cuts of marinade. Like sex. Like undressing. Like tasting genitalia for the first time. The hint of piss that makes it easy to swallow dead things. Easier still to spit them out.

The evolution of sanity in burps and giggles. Insomniac princesses fretting the mattress. The apple. So sweetly poisoned. The faiarest drug is our ignorance. Mosquitoes without their wings still find a way to bite.

It's not the stinger that itches. It's the way we pull it out.