300(ish) Words Spat Out of My Window Along With Litchi Seeds
This is a green countertop, and my orange-painted toes which rest on it are a part of me. My hands are capable of doing things. Like peeling this litchi, like rubbing my eyes too hard. Like texting you late at night and throwing my phone across the room. I can see outside the window. The streetlight seems to shine upon my flaws which are standing in the middle of the street shaped like me, a better me. As if to mock me, that I am nothing without my flaws, and that they make me who I am. I cannot afford to be better. I cannot even afford a typewriter actually. Why do I want a typewriter? I just think I would like that.
My hair sticks to my back and the sweetness of the fruit sticks to my lips. My fingers, which are also a part of me, feel the ghost of stickiness that comes from the thought of touching you. I have never even kissed you, except in my dreams. In said dreams you are sleeping on a green couch, waiting. I undress and lie on top of you. Your chest, my breasts. Your fingers, my mouth. I like to imagine you telling me I am beautiful, and in this imagination I do not refuse. Yes, I am beautiful. Yes, I am full of want. The reason for all of this is you.
I eat the last of the litchis, letting the flaccid texture loll around in my mouth, I pretend it’s your tongue. The sweetness bites. That’s exactly how I imagine our kisses to be like. I spit the last seed out the window and shut it. I get off the countertop, I wash my hands.
My phone rings. A notification. “What’re you doing?” you ask. “Nothing,” I say.
K is a 20-year-old student from India. Their work is set to be published in Rattle and Beaver Magazine. She enjoys thinking and listening to Mitski and mangoes.
