I pour frozen corn into the boiling water and close my eyes. I feel my strength shriveling up like a corn husk in August heat. My soul is misshapen like blighted corn. My dry skin rustles with the sound of wind through a dead-brown field. My limbs tingle with anger, with nerves. My eyes send back images blurred at the edges. My toes curl inside my tight shoes.
I won't tell you I know. What's the point? I know where that path leads. No, I'll just hold on to it, quietly.
I cut the raw chicken with a big knife. The chicken is slippery in my hands, but it clings to the oaken cutting board. The knife comes down in swift motions, one, two, three, and I imagine cutting your fingertips off, eight, nine, ten. I imagine punishing you with a salmonella-infected blade. I smile. I would never actually do these things, but it feels good to dream them. My hands are shaking; the sharp blade nicks my knuckle. I watch in fascination as blood seeps out onto the smooth pink flesh of the chicken breast.
I'll serve you the bloody breast and watch you eat my pain. I'll watch you scrape your teeth on the stainless steel fork, watch you chew and swallow, watch the lump travel down your throat. I'll watch my blood be consumed as my spirit withers. And I won't say a word.
31 July 2012
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