One.
One is a recipe for disaster.
A beginning with no end.
(Perhaps a middle.)
Never an end.
One is languid - not for the impatient.
(And I am impatient.)
One is a dangerous drug,
which I crave, but fear.

Legit'

My eyes hurt from crying, but not in a bad way. The kind of crying that I need to release stress and worry, to stop fretting over things I can't control. A catharsis through tears.

And it's almost a full moon. I'm going to blame that for my crazy brain, even though there's no evidence that "lunacy" really exists.

Men really exist. They make me crazy. That's hormones, right? Completely legit'...

Mostly, I'm just feeling in a rut. I need to pop out into an open field and run around a while.

Flesh for Supper

I did not catch this chicken - did not kill it, clean it, nor pluck the feathers from its goospimpled flesh. I did not remove its head and feet. I did not see its blood in the dirt.

I did roast its body, covered in chopped herbs and garlic, slowly in my oven. I ripped its carcass apart, separating out bone, sinew and cartilage - pulling back greasy skin to expose tender white muscle. I collect the flesh to be consumed and dump the bones into a pot to be boiled for stock.

My hands are covered in the animal's fat and flecks of flesh. I feel like a barbarian. I have destroyed this small body, cracked ribs, pulled the bones from their sockets, ripped muscles out to be eaten. I scrub my hands with dish soap, removing the grease and cleaning the bits of meat from beneath my fingernails. I have conquered this avian corpse.