Some Things

The Things

We never spoke of the small patch of yellow liquid in the kitchen, what had happened the night before, how it eventually dried or was wiped away. A burr under my tongue, like a sting.

That summer, hideous, the air conditioner broken and the garbage men on strike. I could never get used to the way I smelled.

White snails, glistening, down the side of her neck. Flowers on the wall, purple outlined in black. Yellow leaves. I can’t wait till I start losing my hair.

We were always planning our underground lab, what we would grow there, who we would invite to sing. Her room smelled of sawdust and mildew, a wall of cages with rescue animals in various stages of decay or recovery.

That summer, her eyeshadow purple, outlined in black. Yellow teeth. She had all these theories: Sometimes slow motion is supposed to signify that something is happening fast, much faster than you realize.

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