A severed head, I am. Congesting the fridge. My mouth smothers a jar of jujubes—she didn’t cut it off. My skin marbled, my smudged eyelids purple. Father carried this in his tepidity, but now I’m frozen and forgotten like mother. My nonexistent friends will not miss me. In front of my tongue sits uneasily an onion. We share purple, but it doesn’t want to: it flakes. Disappointments dribble through the night. Let there be fire, please. Fire to erase the frost. Fire to annihilate me. The most macabre scene I already smelt. The light I last saw lit her face when she opened the door to me. She drank hungrily from a juice carton. We locked eyes. She barfed. I had lived my life exactly the way it takes to end up as a head. The onion jittery, sturdy, repetitive.
About the Poet:
Christina Pan is a writer from New York City.
Nice to come by your blog sharing unique poetry-prose. Also welcome to visit my travel-lifestyle blog. Thanks. Bliss.
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