They told me to take it.
Shhh…it’ll make it better.
Just two a day would make me normal again.
I drink them all.
Two will make it better, all will make it perfect.
I feel nothing now. Everything is clear. Nothing hurts.
Emotionless I lay back and wrap my legs around death.
“It’s okay if we play,” I tell him.
“I know now that nothing really matters.”
Just put your lips together and blow.
I didn’t know my grandmother.
But one afternoon I stood on the steps whistling for the dogs and the hair on my mother’s body stood up.
Whistling into the afternoon.
Whistling for the dogs.
Whistling just like my grandmother.
Whistling like a dead woman I’d never met.
“It’s just you.”
“Yeah it’s just me.”
“My mother used to whistle just like that.”
Every time I whistle for the dogs my mother’s blood runs cold.
He said he liked watching me sing.
Told me that I really sparkled when I sang.
“Sing me a song.”
“I don’t take requests.”
I don’t like to be forced. It’s better if he catches me, happily chirping away, forgetting there’s a world that exists beyond the melody, beyond the lyrics.
Just me and my song.
It’s Saturday morning and I sit at my kitchen table eating leftover pizza and leftover Chinese rice.
I wish I had tacos so it could really be balanced.
I hate wasting food.
So I sit here eating reheated shrimp fried rice and pepperoni pizza and I think, in 22 days I’ll be thirty years old.
Do you still get to do this when you’re an official grown up?
He said he loved me and I laughed.
“You can’t love me, you don’t know me.”
“But I love you. I’m in love with you.”
“You don’t love me.”
You can’t love me.
Me.
The broken creature crying out for help.
Because no one loves the broken things. They just get pushed to the side and thrown away.
The Secret Life of Pandas 