Breadcrumb #289

LILY ARNELL

I’m a river that crashes into uncles, uncles that are balding and spotting and ripped at the knees. I'm a river that crashes into aunts who wade in pink and molded eggshells and moms who lick brown lipstick off the wrinkled corners of their mouths. I am a red sphere who bounces off white walls and white teeth. Mine are yellowed. Mine are cracking at the base. You look at me sideways when I say I haven't brushed them in two weeks. I am plaque-river. No, I am sad-sack-tributary. No, the heap of equal parts ‘thing’ and ‘nothing.’ No, I am jagged flop-rock wedged in your crooked heel and screening your callus for blood.

"I like shrimp," you say and wipe the powdered sugar from your upper lip. "I like really cold shrimp," you say and pull the bathroom door closed. I sit on the couch and wait and count the stains on the coffee table. Together we taint the landscape.

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