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 fart. 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.