string beans

people no longer wonder why my first published book didn’t entail a Hollywood ending: my arms are scabbed with irritated scar-tissue, blood dried like hardened paint.
if I pretend to be frivolous, the gods will deem me a liar without omission, and if my arms could talk they’d call me an abusive prick.
but as long as someone pays attention there’ll be no repercussions, nothing but inaudible discipline from string beans our mothers would never insist upon.

 

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