Sentire Issue One

Smash all the bowls, I don’t need them anymore Even at the time, I was understanding of the metaphor, ‘have your cake and eat it, but the problem is you get fat’, still it was absorbed, unadorned, permeating my mind. It is present when we stop speaking for the, duly noted, Last time, and by extension, I cut ties to food, too; as though you and him had an embryonic binding, tacitly coveted. Time slips up, and I find the pictures colluding together, reminders of when you forced me to eat brine, scales, and the back of my tongue. My wiry bones spit the table knives back in your face, bitter tasting, I still want to impress you even now. I try to swallow after chewing and chewing, I will come to associate the tough shame with the dining table and your conditional apathy. You stripped me of childlike relish, unsullied, as you photographed me adjacent to pears, and her straight up and down. I was plucked, featherless and unripe, cawing through the cracked carrier.

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