zero to hero, thirty seconds...

zucchini, flecked with salt, with pepper. printed with garlic, tips of thumbs. water waits, then boils over. hits the stove, rises as steam. sounds like "hiss, boo. fuck the presidency..."

whispers gone unnoticed. she's in the shower again, body at the dark. poking hips, counting ribs. "one-two. three-four." fingering the walls, asking outloud, if she exists. "can you hear me? am i real? am imagining, again?"

pot & zucchini answer, but she doesn't hear them. (she is self-involved). this type of thing takes time.

pity, about it:

*zucchini turns mush, a puree. is hardly edible.

*body hasn't changed. she is, as always, half-in, half-out. dangling. a shoelace. uncomfortable cotton.

*secrets are beginning to get to her. squares are not circles, cannot be.


the cycle had ended, again. she set herself against the grain, becoming steeled. she made dark, hefty assurances, to no one in particular, besides herself.

she was leaving the next time, for good, both him and his godforsaken cat. and she sure as hell wasn't coming back, no matter how much he promised to change.