the proof is in the pudding


Along with other unsavory ingredients: shriveled tsetse flies and gray unseeing eyeballs; slivers of glass and shards of memory; fragments of morgue imagination that perished in a waking nightmare; salt, pepper, dried tomatoes; a liberal sprinkling of worm-infested love.
I gag on the pudding and run out behind the garage where under a sky full of stars, I vomit it up.

An isolation-clad self-knowledge came to me at the age of seven while swaying the day away high in a maple tree. It vanished again when I climbed down and resumed pretending.

A taste of love is all it takes to bring it back home again.

I reach out and my hand vanishes.

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