Pisaries Creator

Have you seen how ketchup gets darker the longer it stays in the refrigerator? Once a bright red, lighter than the color of blood, almost a hint of orange if you look at it a certain way. This might be because I see things different through the lens given to me at birth. I continue to wrestle with the demons that pop out from behind the shallow curves of my brain. These demons don’t have wings or red eyes to identity them when I’m asleep from exhaustion. I just know they are there. The goosebumps on my flesh expand when they are at their most powerful. This is the only physical indication I recognize when they have taken over that part of my brain that stops questioning. I have weakened as the degrading ketchup continues to stay in the refrigerator. We are both overdue.

What is this all about? You ask me why I called you here at this place, at this moment, at these minutes of desperate neediness. I stare deep into your eyes as you stare into mine. I’m not sure why I called you except I am lost. I want to be with someone familiar, comfortable around, and still maintain a sense of mystery about the whole circumstance. My feelings inside are similar to my 7th grade year where I asked a classmate to meet me in a specific spot in the library. It felt innocent at the time. Was I really that innocent? Was I the femme fatale in my youth because I didn’t know any differently how to behave? I might have felt being the hunter was better than being hunted, mauled, and killed. My classmate never showed up.

This is what rejection feels like, I guess. It’s been so long since this happened and yet I’ve been rejected a hundred times over. Being rejected has no more meaning for me. It isn’t lost, it isn’t failing, it isn’t denying the truth because there is no more power to the loss. You realize there was no loss to begin with and what could have been never would be. I suppose that’s okay. It’s a wonder people want to feel any emotions from what they experience not in their control. Most of the time people are in a mental state of fright, anxiety, and confusion. They are electrocuted by their own doing. Their toes bending back. The pain breaks bones one crunch at a time. The left foot eventually mirrors the right in mishappen torture.

The ketchup bottle needs to be removed the shelf and thrown into the garbage by a large hand. The fingers can be fat or thin. They can belong to a fat man in fat clothes or a thin man in thin clothes. I wonder if the fat man’s belly is too enormous that he can’t see his private parts. He could do without loading ketchup onto his plate of fries so good he tossed it as unworthy. I wonder if the thin man wishes he could be with someone on a lonely night when he’s alone in the bathroom with the door stall closed. Sound travels. His moaning and swearing fills all occupied stalls. He doesn’t care who hears.

The man in the stall next to him wants to die. The pain in his stomach is overwhelming. He is sweaty and lightheaded. His palms press against the sides of the stall. What the hell is wrong with this picture? What did this man eat that twisted his insides enough to want to die? It is food poisoning but what food caused him to squirt out brown liquid out of his ass? He cares that people hear. His toes are curled tight in his worn-out Nike shoes. Maybe, he ate the discolored ketchup past its prime. The toilet paper clean when he wiped. Toes still curled. He flushed the toilet. Toes still curled. He washed his hands under cold water. His toes uncurled but cramping.

I go back to staring at your eyes after looking at countless strangers walking past me. I want to destroy everything around me. I see me tossing everything from my bag onto the table. It lands all over the food and knocking over drinks. I watch as my arm slides across the table like a wiper blade and pushes everything onto the floor. Glasses break. Food plops. Objects bounce. The mess is scattered. The table is clear. Nothing left to eat. Nothing to see. Nothing to know. I am fed up with my condition, my spot in life. Your eyes try to contain the situation. I know what you are doing. I take my shoes off and hurl them at your face. One hits you straight on your jaw. You wag your finger at me and yell words I don’t care to hear. Your other hand is in a fist. I bet your toes are curled over. You ask me why? I tell you everyone eventually will curl their toes. It’s just the way of our miserable lives.