Hit and Run
by Riham Adly
FYI, no astronaut launches in space with his fingers crossed, and people won’t follow you on twitter based on your Myers-Briggs personality type. Tea-time and time-travel don’t mix; it’s just not how it goes. You think my life’s an eternal night lit by the ghost lights of perished stars? You know what I am? I am the fish that ended up on your plate Mr. Consumer, a sea-bass in an ice-slurry knocked unconscious. Whatever happened to mammalian pain? You enjoyed watching my live gutting, didn’t you? Admit it. Admit it! All those meditations on motherhood and those failed attempts to dazzle them gods, and OMG, those peanuts that I keep telling you ARE NOT NUTS---Again, I repeat, NOT NUTS! Roots, it’s always been those roots missing, those slow riveting fingers no longer thrust deep into the earth--- Severed. You think I’m a modern tomato when I’ve always been a spring-time cherry---a real-time cherry, not a cherry tomato. You taste me and think: Cardboard. It’s this love-hate thing I have for you and this hate-love thing you have for me. Piano man, I’m telling you, I don’t approve of the colors of leaving, and I don’t like jailbreaks. The clock reads 11:11 again, then 4:11 then 5:11 then 7:11. You are tiresome and exasperating like an ulcer, like that incomprehensible whiteness on my MRI scans. I’m tired of riding my bicycle up your walls. I want you back home, but:
1) Not without those waterproof boots.
2) Not until you burn that “Lazy Benders Grunt in Sex” poem you gave me for our anniversary.
3) And not before you admit that the LangKawi percussionists are awesome and that the Earth is flat---
As flat as those pee- nuts…