Shelf Life

Sometimes I don't write. And wait for the words instead. Dining on little hiccups of vomit not brutal enough to breach my lips. My stomach empty except for the hunger that keeps it full.

We never turn the lights on. We never even bother with the curtains. Seeing is so easy. All I want to do is make it harder. Turn the fruit inside out. Make the pit the focus. That is where it came from after all. All that meat. Full of sugar. All because the stone grew itself a soft skin.

Soft over hard. Like everything is.

Hard to see.

The chafe of butterfly wings against the tornado as it moves toward us. In gulps of intuition. We're far. And near. And all things in between. Ripples shudder from the stone making that meat soft again. We're still hard at the beginning. We're still far from knowing. Why it's this easy to assume what couldn't be true.

The long, blond hair of barbie dolls swoons the carpet. Her tiny shoes get stuck between my teeth. As I chew on the possibility of blame. For the sake of it. Because I need an enemy. Now more than ever.