If it goes, you go, really, with it to the scrap heap. And the robot runs the work, while you nestle without pain into the witch jar of rusted nails and half-broken thumb tacks and sharp memories claimed to be forgotten. You dream in the lemonade, you start floating around with the chili pepper, you burn and reformulate.
Don’t start leaving that body quite yet. I need it: there’s a laugh I left in its throat that I need returned. There’s a kiss caught in its lips, an embrace lodged in its arms, a love that runs along its spine like a silk ribbon and I can hardly be made to do without any of them.
I don’t know that they like me very much and today was a bad day with no you in it and me just bobbing about after getting cracked up against the fact that you can call it a new start all you want, but if you still have the old poison in the barrel…it’s going to be hard to pull out a good apple.