If the knife dictates we part for the birth of a story, I fold the laundry.
I tie together the sinking feeling in your gut and the stones inside my shoe and mash
together that droopy aloe vera from Ikea with an overripe kiwi using a spatula caked with two weeks’ worth of unwashed dishes.
A bite would push towards duty.
The stench of the fruit splitting on my tongue, sourly falling apart, surely crushed by
muscle, carries over to the next room, where rejection predicts movement.
When I spit it out, you listen.
And I do the laundry.
I’m not one to argue with a knife.
Johanna Schotanus is a queer poet and gender studies grad. She is fascinated by shame, light and the process of creation. You can find her at joisfeelingthings.tumblr.com for the time being.