somewhere along the rotting hydrangeas you claim belonged to your mother, you held tight on to a pearl necklace. fidgety. as if the cold of the pearls was too much and you felt like blaming it on me.
a couple of bottles of wine later you were telling me 'bout laughter and how it doesn't "go" with anything you own, and because of that you feel you are owed a new pair of shoes, and for the love of god, can i please shut up?
a couple more bottles of wine: the atmosphere is changing and apparently i have changed too, because now you reproach me in the tone you reproach your father, and the lingering sentiment of thyme and cinnamon is calling me back to the kitchen, where the chef would like to stick the meat cleaver into my back, and i will gladly accept if only to get away from your unreserved and unapologetic interrogation.
more wine. more birds.
less this.
i am currently sitting in the middle of my bed; pillows and condoms and rosarys and blankets thrown about the room. i am redecorating: what do you think?
