Yesterday was like spilt milk. Each time I folded the shirt it became imperfect in a different way, mocking my calm face and salad fingers. My current occupation is crying in an empty bathtub, imaging floating in a space where my brain can be separate from my body. Where knives are for vegetables.

Yesterday was yet another existential brain ****. Mother stood in the shadow doorway shaking necks from afar and my teeth retreated into their gums with each mental earthquake, nailing deeper the words I try not to think about, softening my surface.

Yesterday I decided to eat my tongue and forget thoughts as soon as they come.