September 19, 2014

“There is a pig on the wall. There is a pig on the table, on the stairs, and stuffed inside the oven, where Christmas dinner waits to be slivered into rusted tins. You walk in circles, sucking on your thumbs. Whenever you step, your stomach cramps. Poor you. Poor you, walking back and forth, licking the walls whenever you turn the corners. Sometimes, the corner stops abruptly and you strike your nose against the plaster. Then, you are faced with a deep red bloom that crosses your face and disappears into your skull. You keep thinking about dinner. You want a meal you can stick your crosses into.”

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