The other day I opened a bag of rice I had been eating from over the last 6 months to find black specks moving amongst the white grains. It reminded me of the bathroom sink a man hasn’t cleaned after shaving his face over it. There were bugs in my grains, and I’d probably eaten a few over the last couple of months. I cried in one of those silent, eerie ways as I threw the sack down my trash chute because my body felt infested and because the rice belonged to a woman who had died. I suppose I don’t know what I would have done after I’d eventually finished eating it all, but I didn’t bother thinking about it because she used to smooth my eyebrows down and well up when I left and massage my hands and wash my bald head and tell me she loved me and I had just thrown it all away with household garbage, letting it comingle with every other unworthy disgusting thing, instead of letting it linger with me, letting it be savored and eventually released out of my nose in the form of carbon dioxide.
loved this one bald ❤️