I have tasted chocolate cake. I have tasted it sliding off my metal fork across my teeth onto my tongue and down my throat into my belly. Too sweet and chewy and dangerous. I have tasted it come back up my esophagus, into my mouth — bitter and slimy — and watched it fall into the toilet. I have tasted it off of my hand wiping my face. I have tasted it in my nose, blown out into a tissue. Continue reading
He is yellow. Not like my favorite color yellow. Not like Coldplay’s “Yellow”, which he always says is my song and that I can no longer listen to. Not like nursery room yellow or sunshine in a crayon yellow. Not like dandelion yellow or organic tomato yellow. He is sick yellow.