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I think about the “but I’m not a rapper” YouTube video monthly. After fifteen minutes of Supa Hot Fire, I realize I haven’t had much to say today. I can’t put my tongue on an idea and lick it quite yet. Let alone be curious about it’s flavor or dissolving rate. It’s past noon. In fact, my meaty pink slab instead presses outward in all directions flattening a pocket of air to the roof of my mouth. The scab on my right ear gets picked. My feet uncross and recross with impatience. My eyes rest on the strangeness of the inch long wick left on the candle and dart to the video paused on the television screen. A Tiny Desk concert is frozen near two and half minutes. One of my toenails has ripped to a point; I use it to scrap at the callous of its matching counterpart. My stomach is hot and spicy from my morning scramble that was made without eggs, and the saliva in the back of my throat reveals itself to be phlegm slowly slipping down my trash-shoot. It tastes yellowy green and feels suspended just far enough away from the root of my tongue to swallow whole. In my best effort to dislodge the falling globs to meet my stomach, I firmly force my tastebuds to the ridges and wiggle the blunt pressure. It doesn’t work. I instead consider how these ridges might relate to those of my vagina. My eyes lock with a book I put down three weeks ago and wonder if it’s asking me to pick it up again. Its spine encased in a backless dress flirts with me. I wonder about Korean sunscreen and the FDA. Or about gluten in Italy. Maybe my water bottle that is really my partner’s needs refilling. 

Did I fill the ice tray last night between handing the paper towel napkin across the room and slicing tofu? My brain can not confirm. My feet refuse to double check. Last night strikes in. His head turns to me in the backseat and tells me about the miles they’ve put on the car in three years. They sit kitty-corner from one another, exchanging smirks each turn of his head backwards. That specific summer racked up a new digit in the vehicle. “Must have been fun!” I expressed. No confirmation was given. All four shoulders shrugged forward, but the car halted at the traffic stop. I sifted the foggy air for what might reach the correct sentiment. 

“Must have been exhausting, yeah?”

Her head nodded in my right peripherals, and he talked about the job they traveled for. My trash strobes to vision. My unibrow braids across. I’m confused by the egg carton flipped upside down leaning halfway overhanging the bin. The sticker is still on the thirteen gallon receptacle. The eggs question me. What does is mean for them to be sat next to cherry pull licorice, refrigerator hash browns, and paper towels. I remember how the slimed egg shell knocked my elbow crease. It was launched to the garbage just hours ago. What if it had somehow landed perfectly into the condom laid across last night’s ramen containers? Slipped right in like it had been looking for a new latex jacket anyway. 

His chain fit around my waist on Tuesday. I wrapped the cold stiff woven metal around my midsection, and his hands retied my pants to a low rise. He cropped my tank top with a quick roll. My body was sectioned into fifths. Meager snorts existed in the air between us. We dropped the bit. I raised my waistline. And, we walked to dinner. I launch to sixteen days ago when comedy tickets lived in my fridge. Now they ascend, positively correlated in a linear motion on the freezer. The stack of dishes is categorizing our kitchen’s scheme as white, matte gold, and blue. If you count the red bordered holes carved from the ends of our utensils, it’s perhaps desaturated primary colors. My Meijer plant wingspans outward mimicking a chandelier. Our headboard is still a picture frame, and the lamp we hate still hasn’t been replaced. My blue filing cabinet exists smaller than ever before across the room. The internet cord traces the corner to the outlet covered by leaned artwork. A kidney shaped Marni rain jacket hangs from the closet door’s knob. The sticky note workout in his handwriting has been in the center of our sliding mirror door for two weeks. Neither near the floor nor eye level, I’m curious if he squats low, leans over, or cranes upward to read the brief instructions. My teeth have been clenched. I think I have to pee. Oh, there is an email to respond to. The computer is already charged to green. What time is it?