I rode my bike to work this morning. I could tell that it was going to be a bright blue day. This blue and bright I know all right. I was not born here but it’s what has fed me for some time and it’s been just fine. True blue? True bright?
I don know nuddin about dat.
Likewise I am not any class of faultless rendition of true. Sometimes my blue has tinges of green. Sometimes my clear gets muddied by pus. I have grown to like the sting of salt on broken flesh. Part of the healing process perhaps. Excess is a breed of sickness; it has a fleshy tongue and sharp teeth and feeds itself on the entrails of corrupted vessels made from childhood fiends.
My mother was fat from before I was born. She got fat making us kids. Her marriage was her burden that she carried around her pants and between her shoulder straps. I was ashamed of her fat. Smart people don’t get fat. Beautiful women don’t get fat. Loved people don’t get fat. Fat’s gross. Fat’s sick. Fat’s for losers.
fat fat fat fat fat.
Black teeth are so ugly black teeth are so gross.
Everybody that gets to know me will agree that I can be difficult. In any event, I am tired of this rucksack full of bones. Sharp splintered shards of dirty story remains. What’s for dinner hun? Oh, just some leftovers. Mmmmm, backwash from yesterday’s fight. Tastes a little brackish. Oh? Well, that’s just a little salt.