"It was false baby with false baby's breath." -James Tate, from Worshipful Company of Fletchers

Soil

I happen upon myself in the kitchen. I’m making a salad of some sort, but I don’t want salad, I want that leftover pasta. I try to tell myself this, but every time I open my mouth to speak, I also open my mouth to speak, and so I just stand there, mouth ajar, breathing in and in and in, stopping each time to see what I had to say, until I feel faint. I try to sit, but then I sit right down in the chair I was going to sit in, but then, after a pause, I sit there anyway. I think what the hell, may as well sit where I’m sitting and I sit there with myself. I say to myself boy, have you changed and I nod at myself very solemnly. You used to be one of the good guys, then you sold out, you sold our plans, you betrayed us and for what, for this meager apartment and uneventful life I say. My stomach growls. I’m hungry, but I keep stealing every bite I try to eat. I curse myself every time, and every time I threaten to leave the table, and never come back again, and I wished that you, or I, would.