The test results say YOU ARE A TERRIBLE PERSON. The test results are never wrong, the tester says WE WEREN’T EVEN TESTING FOR THIS, she says this with a voice made of strings of llama hide, the strings are drawn into a cord, the cord is wrapped around each of my fingers, each of my fingers are made of pieces of my heart. I’ve already told you that my heart is contained on two pages near the center of the Los Angeles Review. You know, the mis-printed pages, the pages torn and ruffled by the press. I press the pages together and hold my heart close to your heart. The test results are never wrong, you say YOU ARE NOT A TERRIBLE PIECE OF CLOTH, AT LEAST. You say THERE ARE THINGS IN THE WORLD THAT ARE SMALLER THAN YOUR TINY TINY HEART. The heat trapped between my legs, the heat trapped in the density of our small house, our small house like a large oven, a large oven that bakes so many tasty breads, sweet breads and sour breads, all breads we can never eat, again, all breads we can taste to make us happy and full of disgust. You are also a terrible person, by association your heart is also in the Los Angeles Review, you heart is pickled, your heart is my favorite broken toy.
