Even when I am perfectly content I want to drive as hard as I can. Ever since you rolled your truck I’ve wanted to roll my own but everything is so safe. I can’t stand the bell that rings every time I approach some danger. I see the ceiling and I see through the ceiling. I make a game of ceiling mold. I make a game of your death. Every day the same stage. Every day a new piece of your heart knotted in a thick ball. On the walls of the storefront I put a fake picture. On the walls you make a fake heart in the shape of my fake face. A facade on a facade. I think you’re the most post-modern woman I’ve ever met, sometimes you even wear pants. At the cuff a footnote you call a shoe. Sometimes your belt hangs loose around your waste, sometimes you taste like cilantro leaves wilting in a bag in the vegetable crisper.
