Market Day

It’s market day on the square. It smells like hippies and candles and incense and warm fruit. I walk past the corn like sleeping children tucked into themselves. I walk past the bread and the sunflowers. I pick out 3 to take home with me. I pick out bunches of nectarines like small suns setting. I don’t want to feel bad things right now. I don’t want to be a writer who only sees the awful in people, only sees the pain, only sees the demons darkness, the terrored hearts confined in barbs. I’ve put a lot of damn hard work into myself and I’m not tossing me away for a newer model a different model a model with more whistles, fonts, words, larger tits. I know the things in my life are coming, the bad things that no one can control and I wonder what they will be, but don’t want to say them out loud in case they come true. I know something will come because I’m a part of this life.

But for now I want to bite into the pit of a┬ánectarine and see the brown core rimmed in a pink halo. I want to peel the flesh of the seed, feel the clean break of it in my mouth and imagine that I’m getting down to the core, the parts of a planet unseen.

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