Stale bread, hard as rock. Tooth-breaker and chipper, into the spout to destroy. Makes good breadcrumbs. Authentico eggplant parm, chicken too. I get suspect at shrimp and feel like veal is 2nd place, always. There are two kings in this deck of Sicilian cuisine. And they are both verboten to me due to the inability of my body to produce the lactase enzyme. It’s drag a but I’ll say yes to anything that doesn’t cause me unnecessary pain. Tired, complacent, repetition, insanity. Emotions that are below the fill line. Same behavior drug out and disappointing. A carnival game where the hammer drops, but the ball doesn’t quite hit the bell. You don’t get a prize. There are no serotonin emotional rewards. Seismic shifts upon realization that what is stale no longer serves and needs to let go. Snake shedding its skin again and again and again and will forever, as long as there are nights and rodents to eat and eggs to lay. Hydra has many forms. The message asleep and incomplete. A bread box with an air hole in it. Damaged goods. The beige color of an unsliced loaf of bread, the heels of it pock-marked and uneven. Heavier than a football, cumbersome and difficult to throw.

Author: Roe

30. she/her. Songwriter & Trek Punk Soul™.

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