Sober bunnies devour pretty paper drugs. In little bits of eggshell that peel away from hard-cooked skin. The lettuce is high on the cactus. The tomatoes are drunk on the cherries. It's hard to be a farmer these days. Even harder to be the thing they're trying to grow.
She was counting the fingerprints on the freezer door handle. Trying to determine how cold they had become. There were melancholy skunks for perfume and hungry coyotes for pantyhose, but she still hadn't picked out her dress.
Ring-tailed lemurs made a gauche presentation across her breast. While the wild termite mound seemed an ample analogy. Curtains on a broken window. The world pushes its way in, but I see nothing.
The fabric of her flesh calm and debating how far to stretch to fit. Things too big that she could never cover. And things so small she'd slip right off again.
It's like algebra. Find the absent number. Solve the whole equation. It's like geometry. Multiply. And the multiply again to find what you don't know.
It's like love. More sure of itself than we are of it. The crease of the denim. Temprorary prison. The fever of skin escaping again.
No law.
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