Full Moon

25 Mar

What if I told you that every bite you take of that pepperoni pizza, is hiding a bullet. What if I told you that tonight when you go to sleep they will all pierce your bowels, shredding your large intestine until it hangs like streamers in your abdomen. Pink, red, like a middle school Valentine’s Day dance– too uncomfortable to be beautiful. You’ll feel like you’re going to die, but you won’t.

What if I told you that I’ve been putting those bullets in all your meals, shoving cylinders into your chicken pot pie, your spinach and cheese quiche. What if I told you that this is the only way you will understand.

Your love feels like a cancer that rips through my body. I feel it metastasizing in my throat, my lungs, my ligamentum arteriosum. My intestines shredded months ago–once on the night you told me that suns grew inside my eyes, the second time on the morning your hand grazed the space behind my ear; you saw all of me.

But tonight you sit across the table, chewing slice after slice of bad frozen pizza, and you haven’t noticed my eyes for weeks. They’re heavier now, I think. I need your most hidden parts to stretch and shake; I need your ego, your soul, your ghost.

Tonight, while the bullets are at work, tell me about those suns again. I’ll talk about the moons that grow inside of you.

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