They like you if you’re damaged. If the bleeding of your gummy guts reminds them of their lavender-lotioned skin. My skin is on the floor of the dressing room.
I’m like an inside-out grape, gently mutilated and full of mush. Like a baby’s throw-up — repelling but necessary. They say I’m keeping it real. I’m good at being “real.” 100% organic, not even washed.
They like you less if you’re so damaged you’re strewn about the salad bowl, bits of skin on the table and floor. Specks of blood in the fruit.
Berry-like clots aren’t as appetizing as tender conversations. But berry-like clots are more realistic.
Yesterday, the letter came, and I ate a bag of Funyuns on the couch, soaking in the scent of my own indifference.
The only thing I am is broken, and I can’t seem to find the glue. I’m sorry if you don’t like this description.
The kitchen is clean, but I’m still spilling. Out, slowly, like the guts of a squirrel on the road.
The grape jelly in the fridge is rotting, and I take comfort in its decomposition. Unlike me, it used to be alive.
