For lunch, I consumed too much. The cooks made some sort of snazzy Ellio's pizza. At least the mushrooms atop the cheese made consuming the crap (that it was) worth it. And I say crap because, nutritionally, it was no good for me- not crap in a snooty way. Because I think of the clay disks the mothers in Haiti are serving their sons and daughters and that makes me sad and makes me ill.
But for some reason I live in a town with multiple grocery stores and I have a bank account with my name on it. I have a wooden front door with a peep hole and deadbolt, and even a bed full of down and warmth. A fridge, overflowing with food, and a medicine cabinet full of remedy. I own multiple jackets and numerous shoes and my closets are full of things like cameras, quilts and even extra bedding.
But in my heart, deep down, I wrestle with all my stuff- all the demons that whisper. I gaze 'round the cluttered walls and covered floors of my apartment and know that I am not worthy to possess such wealth, such lifestyle.
I don't desire a body of lace and ruffles. Not to be clothed with frill and rape me of my frock. The lines on my face and the freckles spattered about- they are just skin, colors, temporal. My hair falls out, more and more, every day. And this twenty eight year old body will one day rest beneath the earth in soiled grave. And the worms, vermin and creatures beneath will eventually make their way to mine. And this pretty girl will be rotten flesh. A pile of nothing. A stack of bones and a string of pearls.