Groceries

You're a dying streetlamp on a deserted sidewalk, a broken glass abomination, a neuron-chocolate milk lovechild (and I'm a skittle-morphine trust fund baby, together we make M&Ms and nicotine).

You're a quiet virus that rubs against my skin and feels like sandpaper, teeth against my verterbrae, fingernails on my tongue, drops of bleach on my lips;

I can mold myself into metal and steel and carmalize my thoughts in slow motion (you're not a fork or a spoon but a pair of metal chopsticks, an enigma if you please, a timebomb placed in the world of silverware that could easily destroy the dishes and the punch bowl at will).

My ice cold breath illuminated by the flickering light of your sunny disposition and my ghostly touch lingers against yours in this ambionic silence; in this white noise-black lace paper house; it's pretty from the outside just don't go in or you'll get trapped in the walls, and devoured by the elephant in the room (he's rabid and vicious and senile, but he makes good pancakes and treats me like an equal).

I'm a paranoid packet of frozen vegetables stuck in the freezer. I'm inbetween someone's chocolate fudge icecream, hamburger meat, and a nicely packaged corpse. But they're going to eat me, and boil me, and stick me next to yesterday's lamb. And if I'm lucky, they'll not like me or be allergic or something. And they'll scrape me off their plates, into the trash where I can play with my bestfriends: the rotting piece of lettuce and the cow heart.

I don't want to be your leftovers or your main course, just the peas under your slab of meat.

Smash me with your fork and I'll be content.