top of page
Lying still, I lift a dainty wrist and set out feeding myself, with a fine china spoon, upon the lasts of my anger. I gorge to the point of excess; I sicken myself. The emptiness of the bowl terrifies me. Who is to blame for this feast gone wrong? My wrist? The spoon? I wish to break them both but I ate them too. Out of fear I swallowed the bowl.
bottom of page