when we first met you were a spoonful of coconut ice cream. you came out of nowhere, you were a sudden risk but you were calm and sweet, you tasted like home and i wanted to live in you. i wasn’t sure if it was pulp or shattered glass in my mouth at one point but when i pulled the spoon away i got my answer: blood stained my shirt. you must have asked me if i loved you again, in your puzzle ways, in your indirect, subtle ways, cause that’s usually when i bite into the nearest lightbulb like it’s a succulent apple served to me in a bow-tied basket. i can’t answer you at the moment (unscrewing in a frenzy), excuse me, there are thousands of shards stuck in my gums right now, i am leaving blood pools on the floor right now, i’m needing a hospital right now, i can’t answer you right now. i think one day you might catch on and you’ll hide all the glass objects in the house and you’ll get me on a good, sunny day, on a bright nothing-can-go-wrong day and you’ll shoot your question like a bow and arrow into my target mouth. and when you do, i’ll take the china from the cabinet and sprinkle some salt and have my way. when you do, the mirrors will look appetizing. when you do, i’ll rip the windows off their hinges and fit them into my mouth.
