for breakfast, you point a gun into the bowl. the bullet lounges itself with a sickening splat. god, even your violence is defeated. the bowl (chipped, red, bought by an ex) has been on the counter for two days now. you can see the flies laying their eggs on the milk.

you take a shower so your mind is clearer. but that’s a joke if you’ve ever heard one. you can fly off your couch and walk off an airplane, but somewhere far away, your chest cavity is turned inside out to cook in the sun.

but this time, you lose and you accept your loss. you eat the cereal and you drink the milk in a single gulp.

eggs, flies, bullet and all.

…

yesterday, i ate moldy bread by mistake and it was the most interesting part of my day. here’s the weird thing: mold tastes just like rust. excited to be alive. tangy. ready to fuck. i philosophize. this is how things that grow out of other things taste. not alive, but excited at the thought.

i am not excited to be alive. i am not grateful for my AC that rattles like a life-support lung. the days are wicked and rainy and gone in the clap of a hand. i have two scars on my face (37 if you count the acne). but between bashing my chin against the concrete and first periods and first kisses, i don’t know who i am.

am i this tiny, tinkering town? am i the books i’ve read? am i my ravenous lust, my unraveling greed? oil over nipple, a plate of collard greens?

am i the hand-print on the wall? am i the metal lining from the cloud that rains acid?

and it’s not just youth… or just you. You don’t grow out of it or into it. it’s like wearing a second skin and forgetting where the zipper is.

you have to cut it off. the second skin. there’s no gracious unlearning or death like a restful sigh. you run around like a headless chicken until you’re put down by swift feet. it’s a lot more fun than it sounds, i promise.

but if that doesn’t sound appealing, you could be rust.

you could be exquisite rust. you could let yourself be lured by things that keep you rust. rust doesn’t become tree or leaf or puppy. rust is rust is rust. a spot on your spoon, or covering the empire state building. you could soak in the facts:

your voice is a chorus of better women who lived worse lives. smart, ferocious women who were cut and married off to cousins and denied learning.

becoming who you already are is the hardest thing you’ll ever accomplish.

you’ll wonder eternally what you did to deserve your luck, both the good and the bad.

you’ll cry as much as you laugh.

and let them defeat you.

you could stop brushing your teeth or get married or sign the contract or give up on your dreams. you could devote your day to another episode of another tv show until the capillaries of your eyes are close to bursting. you could give way to vinegar and dissolve into soap sods.

or you could be rabid and a curse and a monument to god.

you could listen to that singed phoenix in the jar of your left breast. it’s crippled and vulgar but never to be captured. that old pump with whom you have a shiftless truce.1

with whom you eat other hearts.