Middle Names Are A Construct

There are aunts and uncles falling out of every mouth. What I mean is, the leftover cousins from any given family tree are relevant. The creature feature that lies between my name is frankly, undergrowth that begs for polenta to sustain a post-breakup chef syndrome. I want seconds. Keep coming back. My inability to kiss your forehead has muddy reasons. Do you feel the sweaty vibes? Tomorrow I’m going to get tattoos shaved off my forearm, in quarter angles, so the eyebrows don’t get tangled in the jaw so much that bones fall out of your face. Give me just one aunt and I’ll feed bread or fear to a known alligator. The TSA hates to see me coming, but how else does a blunt-skinned fox crossover to Florida land? 

The rushed series on family opens with a backup of a sad orchestra, and that’s where I get lost. I’m creative between the drumming of my teeth and sniffles of Eglinton cold, like the avenue and chewed-up rocks. I know nothing of swamps and gators, but I understand the waiting and green river death, snap! Especially as kneecaps disjoint and crack under pressure. Snap. Face mask stuck in a miso-glazed smirk. I’m actually deathly afraid of genuine reptiles. I bet you didn’t see that coming. I’m capable, but I rest easy in a Chipotle dream. Give me cities and ready your faith for a penis envy in downtown Vancouver. I just don’t try. All my friends are auditioning for my patriarchal expectations; my father figures are dead. Isn’t that why we all make friends in the first place? 

I wouldn’t have said anything if I was a plump or a beetle sized cherry on your adobe tree. Picture me. Please. I’m quiet like that. I just want to be involved and deconstruct food blogs as my twice adopted 43-year old history teacher declines to comment on my edible personality.