Lunchtime
At my desk, I eat brocolli with my hands. Each piece is an enormous tiny tree. I slowly pull its branches. I eat their leaves. I toss the trunks back into the styrofoam box. They make soft thunking sounds. Throwing food makes me feel rich, even if I’m only throwing stringy, inedible stalks.
I look into the mirror. My nose turns shiny when I want it to stay matte. My lips turn matte when I want them to stay shiny.
