“love is supposed to be hiding amongst the littler things. in fine china, in apples and spices, in bittersweet black tea that i’d once negligently said you carried the flavor of in your mouth. i’ve read so much about it that i almost tricked myself into believing that i was full to the brim with it, and through it i could’ve lived a life, or better yet a thousand and one. to be the hopeless man hanging over a balcony railing. to be the nameless woman fixing her high stocking. to be the blameless child raised by a pack of wolves. but what’s the use in eating if it’ll taste no good? what’s the use in seeking warmth from a cadaver gone cold? my face falls out of place again, without it i’m stark naked. stood half-bare in front of the mirror too long, seeing how my lip swells, seeing how my hip juts, wrenching on my person-suit. aren’t i just the doll? can’t fit back into my old skin today, so i take to it with a hunting knife, leave it strung up, feel dull as a tattered old coat set out to dry. what a messy job of a field dressing.”
—s.k.
