I Am Your Natural Disaster

Just how many bricks of pollen can I sneak over the Ohio border before they catch me? Just how many snowflakes can I snort off my house key until she realizes it’s been cut with firefly glow juice? Our nostrils flicker as our lips part. Just how many dandelions can I behead until I’m thrown onto nature’s electric chair: a tree stump, a lightening bolt, vines around my ankles?

But in all honesty, I’m begging for it. For all of it—her cracked lips and blood-crusted right nostril, my insane 4 AM ramblings about how the green of the grass cannot be duplicated, or how banana isn’t a flavor yet mastered by candy corporations. Either way, she knows how to rub me like tree bark and I know how to dive into the lake without causing a ripple in its algaed flesh.

My words get gargled. Her face is sunburnt, but I like it when she wears red. If we could bury ourselves in the dirt without swallowing, maybe we could pretend to live forever. At least just the way we are: snow-capped nose tips, cheekbones the color of cardinal feathers, lips pursed and waiting for a raindrop of bodily fluid, a second of survival among the earthquaked pantyhose. But instead you rip mine apart; the runs are fault lines, the pain of another hour without water.

(I want to eat the world today. Rip it open and shove fistfuls of earth in my mouth. I’d like to rub its sap over her skin and paint my nails with the blood of road kill. Natural in all of its unnaturalness.)