Runny My grandmother’s recipe for sugar cookies contains no sugar. Something so vital meant to be missing. Us in crumbles. I tore away because I was afraid to set, to pour my body into a cake pan and let it bake. Now I’m runny. I melt over the sides of everything that tries to catch me. Now I’m small, tiny as in it wouldn’t matter if my body was chopped up and fed to pigeons. As in all the gods are too tall to hear me. All the shadows morph to mouths when I am tired. Always tired. I hunger for you with moon-pie eyes and little whimpers. The only caliber in which we understand each other. Will you hear me in morning? Will I want to speak?
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Lee
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