I can’t tell apart the strings of mango from the stitches in my mouth.
You best believe I will write about everything and anything. As much as I wish I were wrong about this: I can not write well when I am content and happy. The greatest gift of dissatisfaction and loss is how I also build the capacity to articulate it.
I have stitches in my mouth that sit between my teeth and I feel the thread every time I bite down. The side of my cheek swollen. I like to imagine that what it is really is, is that I’m part of fight club and I got punched in the face during my first fight last night. I imagine a stylistic scar placed strategically across my cheekbone. The scars and burns and bruises of Hollywood.
It is really not that cinematic. I’m having a mango milkshake for crying out loud. There’s no grand cinematic experience to all of this. There’s mango pulp in my mouth.
Loss feels like slices of my skin being gently placed on a baggage carousel. Everything I’ve ever lost spins on the carousel before me. I wish it was out of sight but no it’s spinning endlessly before me in the shape of cake slices from my own body. There a slice of my shoulder: a person I’ve lost. There a slice of my arm. There a slice of my face. Everything spins slowly on a baggage carousel and the more I lose the less I am. The less I can move at all.
There’s mango pulp in my mouth. I can’t tell the stitches from mango threads. They take another slice from me. My stomach.
Am I real or cake?
Love,
Metacog Moon 