Monday, March 31, 2008

French Bread

Biting through the crust, eyes closed, to the soft chewy interior, you wink at me, suddenly, sharing your pleasure. Sip my tea, already full, full of tea, of bread, of you, watching you. I smile at your pleasure, indulgent, holding the cup in both my hands. So cold. The cold never goes away, no never, but sometimes when you are...I don’t feel it as much.

Another sip. The scalding tea lands in a bog, rivulets in cracks of putrefying fear. Shakes me. Pouring sugar to cover it with sweetness but the granules miss, bounce, scatter like the headlights of an oncoming vehicle on a rainy night. No matter. I travel to the funhouse, absorbed by mirrors of distorted self, endless loop, trying to breathe.

Where did it go? When did it change? Knife slowly breaks my skin. Seppuku. Look down at my spilling insides, at my cup which holds no answers. Glance up through the veiled lashes. Your fangs rip bits out. Chew. Swallow.

I shake myself back to the now, hearing a muffled voice. Whose? Yours? Hey, do you want to try a piece? Here, have some. The end. I know you like the end. Break off the heel of the bread, a sacrament you hold out to me, then place on the communion plate.

Stare, turn it over slowly. Schoolgirl withdrawn, refold my hands in my lap. Biting my lips, muffled voice fills my skull. Can’t you eat? It’s really good, sourdough. Plugra butter. Smearing butter on the raw open insides, broken off piece filled with dead ends. The melting butter makes its own path through the pockets, seeking an escape. Sour aftertaste. Ultra high fat butter. Blood fear pounds, pulls me under, throat too tight to swallow the tea held behind my teeth.

Your arm around me, not a comfort, a prison. I shrink from your too-long fingernails, the glossy, deep red polish. Sweetie? Are you in there? Hey, is anybody home? Avoid your eyes, avoid you, what I see. Beloved scavenger, beloved predatory beast. I stare at your coffee, milk fat, grinds floating. My tea, clear. Read the leaves, read the grinds. They all say nothing. Nothing except seeping cold.

2 comments:

Computadores said...
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Rohan said...

This is wonderful. It's different and
great to read and wonderful. :)