mei

i hate hate hate paying for food. it's so absurd. it just goes away. *poof* work = money = food = energy to do more work. it seems like a dumb vicious cycle. more like a viscous cycle, actually. less aggressively violent, more just sticky and slow. like wading through corn syrup.

days are long and hot. i'm a little irritable. i want something to happen. i want to go and do, far from here. runaway runaway runaway. burrow down beneath the sand where it's cooler.

i haven't felt like exploding since i was at the cell phone job. now i do again, but it's not an angry explosion, really. i want to toss my head back, sternum arched like a dolphin. my toes are pointed and my arms are wide open, frozen in the moment just before an embrace. my hair drips mercury, heavy and bright. my entire body is folding away from one point on my chest, the place where a tiny diamond pendant would rest should i own such a thing. my breastbone cracks suddenly and i shudder, expecting pain. but there is no pain. and a stream of light begins to pour from the wound, coursing down my breasts and across my stomach. another crack sounds, and my body loses tension, hanging like a tangled marionette. a flurry of tiny, impossibly bright fireflies arises from the hull, but on closer examination they aren't alive, they are instead soft-edged flakes of light, the petals of a burning gardenia. as they swarm into the sky, you suddenly realize that you can't tell the difference between those shining bits and the stars. as they float, tiny bits of gray ash fall, surrounding my body. and i sit up, scaring the bejesus out of you. i blink. i look you in the eye. i ask if, by chance, you have a glass of water. and as you go inside to run the tap, you watch me through the window. i'm staring at the sky, as though i see the eyes of a former lover there. after what seems to be forever measured in running water and the ash from rising stars, i turn my gaze towards the door and come inside.