Today it was breakfast.
Breakfast killed me today
half an avocado
pitted
shriveled
gray
which could have been delicious but looks instead
like a metaphor for
my decaying life. Malicious
mocking
fruit.
I am squeezed. Abruptly it begins:
that familiar fusion
of piss-warm tears
and sticky snot on my chin. This is absurd.
I’m losing my grip: avocados
are not adversaries.
But my emotions slip suddenly from beneath
like a slimy tub floor under
unsuspecting feet.
Boom.
“It’s the hormones,” I say
or
“It’s my job,” or
more
the strain of pretending
things are what they were
Before.
At dawn I am queen.
By breakfast, reduced
to a lunatic
weeping
at the sight of produce.
I have sense enough left to at least be
embarrassed. I shake my head
compose myself
wipe my nose on my sleeve.
I pour cereal instead.
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