last year’s spring

May 6, 2011

with whichever finger it was you had pointed, it’d seemed symbolic at the time. sharpened with cultural significance. I had been bad and it’d guided me. the way of the norm. my own fingers had been sticky with a batter I hadn’t been allowed to taste. had I been told? forbidden explicitly? perhaps it was, had been just one of those things. you feel and know. you bury your shame like a sugary, sticky finger in the bed of your tongue. face deep in a pillow. that is where tears feel hottest. like a weeping greenhouse. vegetal perspiration, the leaves bawling until glass pains are streaked, soaked with veritable tears. now hush. open your face to the room. have a look. everything still in its place. only a little damp.

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