Im constantly finding myself coming back to this
moment.
I stare at the lemon
Cursing the god I know doesn’t exist while I kick
the fucking
knife
I told Tim was unsafe
under the cooler to rust.
I hate blood.
The
smell curdles my stomach and
The color,
how it changes the more your body pumps out
the closest rag
covered in the sickly sweet strawberry syrup that the
bees just buzz about
will have to do.
As the rag starts absorb
what my body is pulsating out I pretend
‘its just more syrup’ so as to save my breakfast from
the floor.
The lemon has a pink tinge to it now
Tim shouts ‘Pollock you good?’
And I flip him off
Because my thumb is on the floor
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