life of a pickle jar
It’s like accidentally breaking pickle jars. The smooth slide of shaped glass slipping through fingers only to find broken jagged things waiting on the floor; the vinegar looks like a puddle of formaldehyde. It’s only fair. The cucumbers have died and have been preserved as pickles; its finger food, like broken fingers bleeding over broken glass is what it’s all about. Maybe it is.
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Sometimes I think about it, of what it would be like to slide sharp metal over skin and separate flesh from flesh. A thick line over thin skin; an open red gash with the thrum of life inside, beating out the magical tone that resonates throughout the world, like everyone needs this feeling to be alive.
Cut it out, pull veins to stretch and snap and gush. Pull apart the muscle and peel it back from the bone, and then break that, splinter it and grind it into dust.
In the end its all little white scars that don’t feel anymore. But the feeling remains.
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His hands were large and warm. Everyone’s hands are large and warm when you don’t want them near you. There are different places to touch. Innocent places, guilty places, but in the end its everywhere and all you really want to be is nowhere.
The touch comes and you slip away, eyes open and distant and absent.
And when your touch replaces his, it’s like an excuse to just leave and forget to come back.
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I’m not sure I ever came back.