yo, that's wack if i'm not the baddest


profile * old * mail * fucking sign it* or how about a nice note? you go forward / i'll go backwards


i cut vegtables. i sliced cucumbers with watery fluids running over the cutting board, onto the counter, mixing with tomato and pepper seeds. the torn skin around my finger nails burned. my hands smelled earthy and good. i carried scratchy baskets upstairs to an older italian woman who held out sticklike fingers with white stains on them. she thanked me for the food contained within them and walked slowly back in with each movement obvious in her hips which were thick under her floorlength skirt. i held back to listen to her hum and speak to herself about my shorts being too short. i slid my foot back and forth in his sandals to feel the texture of the leather. it was well-worn, too soft and familiar to feel new to me. i ate peeled grapes and my grandmother refered to germs as �germains� and kept my feet under the table in the secret shoes. the heel of my foot fit perfectly in place with his, however, the arch of his foot was taller than mine and the difference was noticable. i ate grapes with my jaws clattering and remembered a kitten we once had who chewed at wires as my teeth would like to. i imagine the milk pouring into my bones as i drink it and making me invincible. dear mister holmes, i realize youre in love but would you be interested perhaps in playing wheelbarrow after school on wednesday? love, breanna
d-land