there are orchid blossoms. they are little hoops that shimmer. blushing cheeks, ice baths. 

I am lithe. sprawled along mall floors. dirty. a small heaven. I am calling a restaurant and asking for a table. it has been one thousand years. I am starving. I am hungry for the first time. I twirl a strand of hair. a blossom spirals. small tailspin dances. I am craving salt. fried food. I want slimey light that sticks to my skin. coat my lips with oil. little slugs. metal. mercury. 

I want small seabed-heels. conch shells. long pepper earrings. a burnt tongue.

there is dirty snow. the colour of disappointment. gravel. rent money. my feet hurt. I scuff my shoes. it does not matter. I have brought crystal-studded loafers. they will sing on my feet and I will squish dumplings between my toes.

my bag dangles. it shimmers. food sweltering in vats. it is dripping. no – it is just the light. there is light dripping into the noodles. I ignore the sneeze guard. I am eating with my hands. I am taking a bite. you stare into my mouth. you are watching my lips. I am chewing. slowly. my pearl teeth. I am sleeping in a custard pie. heavy crystals run around my neck. they taste of copper. of sweat. of sugar and egg beaten into cotton balls

once I was alone. I ate a butterfly. it zipped my lips closed. it emerged again. it was flesh. it dazzled. it spoke to me. whispered. one day you too will be swallowed. you too will emerge. effervescent. blossomed and throbbing. ice-cream pillows. cradling my skull. i am asleep. gorged on fat. sickened by crepes and ribs.

my bag hides: $5. 3 condoms. half a pack of gum. 1 presto card. 2 broken cigarettes. they are intertwined and knotted together. accordions of red pleather. I am two bodies wrapped in rubber. vacuum sealed. we are ready to be shipped. we whisper into ears. we talk only about sex. our tiny mouths muffled.

I have eaten. garlic. green onion. pork. peas. my teeth are dirtied. the food was lukewarm. it was neon light. it slunk greasily from my stomach. it warmed me up. dumplings. little cocoons.

I will store my leftovers, unprotected, in this miniature folding bag. I will stain it with oil and grease. it and I will be the same. writhing intestines. all my meals for 1 week. they have satisfied me. I am out of words. the restaurant has done the job.

I am spinning on grotesque electric squares. I am being eyed by an old woman. her gaze confuses me. I am joyous. there is just me and the food. steel bathtubs. opalescent red. sauce on a small blanket. it will stain my stomach. ruin my teeth. it does not matter. I have sunglasses that blot the light. they are supernovae. They are dangling fish-scales. gutted and hooked. they are spackled. popcorn-roof. they take the lustre out of my food. they are ancient tortoises. they reek of plastic.