Temperature Below Boiling

She was more or less sober. Defiantly so. With big tattoos on her brain in gaseous spasms of neon. With letters bigger than the paper she was writing on. Sober. Like a fawn is just before it's eaten. Sober she thought. Just like the sky is right before it pours.

Men she proclaimed are like free ketchup packets. You can take as many as you want, but who would take more than a few. You tear them open with your teeth and pretend the meat you're eating tastes better than it does. Calm like the breath of heavy ribs trying to decide how much of that skin is theirs.

She lies and says she doesn't know why no one's listening. And everyone is. Paled decisions blot out the landscape of skin. And she must choose. Again. Which lie to believe.

Her own or others.

Lie to me she thought. The truth has nothing to do with it.