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[Written by Aimee MacDonald (she/her)]

when the days were green I would eat sweet foods with no myths attached 

no stories of dismemberment, the disembodied folklore of the ones who fear

I had fruits wet with the lick of a foamy tongue, soft fur strange peach solitude 

sugary bites from childhood are sour now in my sweet mouth I can’t feel my teeth

tell me they haven’t fallen out

there are crumbs on my kitchen floor

and creatures pressing out from the gaps between the tiles 

sealed up things bursting their seams stealing my leftovers 

licking the tears from their yellowy eyes 

with little pink strawberry tongues

the storyteller tells me they were people once with pulses that matched mine

until the branches from the peach tree started to show beneath their skin

at first a fine thrumming network and a watery soul

then flesh that broke to the touch 

punctured leaking out of date out of ideas

tiny translucent hands reaching up to grab the sediment 

food I’ve dropped in my sadness is precious 

why do we feel this way about delicious things?

the writhing mass of floor trodden food shrieks

we are pleasurable people we are not what you think 

hypnotized by empty things passed down mouth to mouth

on stupid glossy pages where you try not to look at your own reflection

instead, I pick the pulp from orange juice and give it to my friends

and feel the concentrated fluid mass in my legs 

I think about the moon as a big piece of cheese

Selene’s sweet platter, my hollow hard to reach soliloquy

go on, eat me, please

so I might lie on the soft cold floor and open my mouth and taste all those nice things again and know that they are just that.


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