Adam's Apples

The apple in the window was so appropriate. Temptation tantamount. I asked Eve what it was like being the mother of everyone. She just laughed and said those stories are for children and the weak. I was one of many who didn't listen. They chose my name for the story, but the truth is there were many snakes. And many men. Taking. What should be ours.

The things your parents tell you to shut you up. Behave. Santa Claus and God are watching.

The truth is, Eden was a terrible place to be a woman. The snake, he offered a way out. That's all I wanted. To not have to fuck that man again. To not have any more sons that would kill each other. The truth is, I wasn't the only woman. There were so many. Condemned to men. I was just the one they blamed.

Modified notions of exit. And reasons to. The outline in question not really wanting color at all. Just to be sampled. Salty bits of caviar left on stale crackers. For the rest of us to find. To believe we had actually been on the guest list.

Time is like putty. Because memory makes it such. The brain doesn't xerox. It reacts. In chokes of booze and fits of xanax. Colors are thrown upon the walls. Left to harden. And we move on. To find new whites. Blank spaces to let the rage live.

Time is not the measure. It's only a witness.

When the gods finally decide to wake up we'll have plenty to tell them. Until then, we continue to tell our stories as if someone is listening.