Jenny Rossi: Burnt Heart

Scraping toast. His voice is the sound of someone scraping toast.
Little bits of emotion crumbling all over the floor, and you should
be cleaning it up, but GODDAMN the sound is killing you! His
eyes are two round eggs, cracked and leaking. Suddenly you
realize you’re hungry, and lift up a knife (a knife! how did it get
there?) and his cheeks are so soft and pink, two round Canadian
bacons. And this is how murder starts. You didn’t mean it, really.
Be American. Go back for seconds. Again and again. He’s crying
now. But I’m hungry, you whisper. His ears are like butter. Melt
them with lips and knife. Hold the leftovers overnight. Share them
among friends. His cries are the bubbles from a mimosa, rising and
tickling; they run out your nose when laughing.

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