elena minor

I would have come. When you called. But. I had the most beautiful pale pink rose. Its healthy stem was clenched between my teeth. And. Its thorns bit sharply into my tender wet flesh. So. I couldn't answer you. Still. My lips moved at you silently. They offered words you never heard. They screamed inside my crazed brain. Only. It could do nothing for you. In time the petals wilted. They blew away. And. They became compost in someone else's garden. The tough, fibrous stem withered. I bit down hard to snap its grip on me. Then. My teeth fell out. Its thorns had burrowed into my cheeks. They had implanted themselves permanently. They were suckling on my softest tissues. And. Not long after they sprouted tiny shoots. They coiled their way down. I still held the memory of your call. And. The long stemmed beauty lodged next to it. They cleaved unto the long roots curling down my neck. My body held tight and listened. Hard.

Empty air has its own mechanism,me dijo. Its gears accord to whim. We go out only when we have to,me dijo. We have hidden things for breathing. You can't understand it prepped that way,me dijo. It always changes, but never readily enough. Some things we say more of and then again,me dijo. They always mean less once pre-written. The context connections are far too frail,me dijo. To make them you need to pixel-point time. There are no click-in-n-out pictures,me dijo. You facet your eyes to see them multiply. There are hands held out everywhere,me dijo. We have to be careful what to step around/in. Sometimes we come this close too late,me dijo. Then we have to wait for inertia to embrace us. We are the hungry, hungry: so ravenous,me dijo. We will tear at your insides and lick them clean.