🍓 — CLOSED / @cxultnt
ONE HUNDRED AND THIRTY-TWO empty glass bottles. ox had counted them threefold that afternoon — he kept losing track after number forty-seven. most of the glass was shattered or chipped, dirtied around their rims much like his mailbox sat out front. which, had taken a few beatings ever since the protests concerning his execution. TRAITOR! they’d shout, HE’LL KILL US ALL! ox would've furrowed a brow & stared at you silly if you explained such rage. now, how could someone feel so upset while the sun shines? the present, however, sat with ox like an unwelcomed guest, and he supposes they had that in common. he burns with the core of the earth he didn’t truly belong to, shrivels with its weeds. he grows in spirals along with them, black as coal in the creases of the heated concrete. once his wonderment gave in like buckling knees, so did his outward charm. it was a game he was destined to lose; he was never going to be earth’s foreign sweetheart.
fists grip the shiny black of two full garbage bags. he can tell their insides like he could dissect his own; just by sound and texture. the first, in his right hand, is heavy, cold and clinks; glass. the other, smells horrendous ( new word! ) and that’s the means for his compost. if there’s one thing he’ll never regret, it’s taking up gardening.
when did a lingering figure become a threat first and potential friend second? ox jolts a step back at the sight of the unfamiliar, fists gripping tighter, and face quite unwelcoming to start. he remembers when people treated him with such hesitance. “um.” he was once told ones that ums and uhs helped to humanize him, his speech which was deemed too precise and far too literal. it still feels so taught in his mouth.
half up his driveway, his faux posture softens. “are you lost?”
