“my hunger is becoming quite the problem. see, i yearn most for what i don’t want, and god forbid i start needing. i only have an appetite for the strangest things, for poisonous herbs, for vile sewer waters, for raw tripes; the rest doesn’t sit well in my stomach. the dripping faucet beckons inside as the tub overflows, and i spill, dissolving to a rusty puddle that seeps through the crack of your bathroom door. if only you would let me reach your bare soles, but you’ll get sick if you dip your toes for too long, and purulent lungs aren’t pleasant to deal with, i know. stifle the cough, don’t taint pristine white cloth with your crimson. in a playful jitter, i slip away, and what a useless endeavour it would be to try and dry the dampness left between tiles. mold clings to souls too if it’s allowed to grow undisturbed. it’s selfish, yes, but are sins of desperation truly sins? there will be plenty of time to think over misguided decisions as you watch the tide come and go, longing for the salt and the sea to swallow you whole. turning back to the deceitful comfort of mundane life, matters turned out more poorly than you could ever imagine possible. among the rows upon rows of people with blank faces, you won’t ever find your number in line. go on, pick up a flask instead, warm yourself.”
—s.k.
