I am cutting a yellow kiwi. One of the sweet golden ones. Gold kiwis have always felt like a luxury. Tonight I will have oatmeal for dinner. Something that will feel warming. Cause my bones are cold. And my stomach is growling.

I am using a bread knife, cause my dishwasher is full of clean dishes that I can’t get anything together in me to touch.

My knife is missing the mark and I am cutting too far from the skin and scraping off too much of the hardest inner layer. The sweet and firm part.

I stare down at a yellow kiwi in a green tiled kitchen. being cold. feeling hungry.

I open my mouth to try the cubed kiwi, and the movement of my mouth breaks that thin tear crusted mask. The one that layers on top of the day’s makeup. closing the lips and firming the cheeks. And now my face is itchy, but I have oatmeal on the stove.

I listen to nothing until I hear a slight vibration above me. A fly in the light fixture is driving itself mad.

I do not help it out. I do not turn the light off. What might it matter if it goes back in.

throwing itself with everything it has. Unattended kiwi laying sweet on the table below.

Using what little life to crowd the lightbulb. absolutely nothing in return.

What is the difference between hope and desperation?

I suck on the skin. Soaking up all the sweetness. Feeling my eyes rinse out again. Down my cheek, to firm once again