Tuesday, April 9, 2013

The Peach is Me

Kiki is a dumpling. How am I not supposed to eat her? Sitting there on the couch in her tiny wife beater and nappy, skin all warm from the heaters and the nudie runs. She smells like ice cream - how am I supposed to not lick her face off? Especially when we're in the country for example and it's the dead of night and she is sleeping in our bed for the first time since she was a baby because the air is so cold it aches and I have to bring her in with us for peace of mind though she molests me under my pyjama top like a big old tired drunk and then falls asleep face wet with rejection and for a moment I can see her face in the moonlight and it is a porcelain doll and her flesh smells like the Strawberry Shortcake doll I used to bite, but it never tasted as good as it smelt.

I suspect Kiki would taste as good as she smells, if not better. Just looking at her I think my heart might burst inside my chest, just like her cheeks might explode inside my mouth like the inside of a juicy peach. Oh, to ingest her, to have her part of me again. I remember once wanting so bad to crawl back inside my mother. If I could only have Kiki in my body again, all would be perfect. I miss her so close to me all the time, though I pull her clawing little hands away from my chest like someone being pawed by a dog. We are together, but separate. We are separating. Seeing her face is heartbreak - it's in front of me, I can't have it. I want it like I wanted that Strawberry Shortcake doll. But she was never mine.

Kiki wakes and begins to eat me. And I realise the Peach is Me. I wonder if she'll ever be able to give me up?


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