Excerpt from a Fairytale
Girls should have exoskeletons, he told her.
Their ribs could be can openers. My parents never touched each other enough, she said.
He traced her stomach like a coloring book, stopping
And starting to a thousand imaginary traffic lights.
“Happiness is a cliché,” he told her.
“I want to feel in black and white,” she said.
She wanted her heart to print receipts. Their menus rest on the table like slain birds.
She garnished her soul like it was a thing to be consumed.
Every human being is waiting, she said,
At the bus stop of someone else’s
soul. wanting to be taken to Paradise. So stop waiting, he said.
He imagined her soul bobbing away, like a balloon.
She wanted to kill him and press him into the
dictionary for two weeks, until he was only beautiful
In two dimensions. She packaged her memories in garbage bags
and talents leashed like pets on the sidewalk
waiting for him to come home. The principle problem in life, he thought, was this:
No human being could truly love another.
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