September 4, 2010
Sometimes I feel my heart has the consistency of a strawberry frozen fruit bar.
It’s frigid, and hard. It melts under pressure,
but can be delicious to bite into.
I imagine I have a fork, digging out pieces one at a time.
I eat it myself. It refuses other lips.
It’s more delicious that way.
My brain I imagine is made of foam, like the models you see in science class.
It has different colors and labels.
Its foaminess expands with the knowledge I put into it.
I again hold the fork with the label “one night stands.”
It tastes semi-sweet, like dark chocolate or red wine.
They both taste so good, it’s hard to stop eating.
So I gorge myself on the crumbs; I bite into the rinds.
Soon, there will be nothing left to consume.
Soon, you know, I will run out of time.