Backwash
You are that same boil of a man from my friend’s 7th birthday party who found me hiding under a table and pinched my chin between your hot ham fingers. I have learned since that there are many of you. At la frutería, I am moving quickly to get away from one who is following me. We are eyeing the meat, waiting for the carnicero to call our numbers. I know it’s not really you, because you are only in my memory. A tongue slathering beerspit across my teeth, calling me chula. In the counter’s reflection, I behold your mirror image leaning back against a wall of cans, gaping from behind me. He walks up and circles around one side of my body before crouching to reach into a box of tortillas before my feet, staring all the way down. He encircles my other side and repeats, never taking a damned docena. I want to slice all of your brains open, find the tiny puppet horror show inside, pluck it out, and rearrange the miniature flesh wires. I am tired of searching within to repair what should never have been shocked into sparks. On my walk home, another of you tells me, You don’t even know how beautiful you are, linda. I tell him that he can go fuck himself. Because I do know. Dang, lady, you gotta real prollum! The only problem is the time it takes to scrub the film of your yellowing eyes from my skin.
