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Oven - apatheticroommate

Cold day in August.

You climb into the oven like a cat looking for some soft warm place to sit.

Unsafe however, considering the oven is on and your skin is starting to blister, but

if that’s what you want, I’ll leave you to it.

I’m at the kitchen counter making miserable sandwiches

while I wait for you to finish dying. I feel like I’m putting in jail time.

You’re screaming but soon you won’t be.

An old sink in an overflowing house.

I try to remember who’s going to do the dishes after I move away.

Then I remember there won’t be any dishes.


I asked what you thought about my hair. Was it infinite enough?

Apparently so.

I said your hair looks like maple syrup.

You said nothing because you don’t talk, or if you do it isn’t to me.

You don’t have any hair at this point: it’s all burnt off.

Pretty funny looking at your bald head through the thick glass,

trembling like an egg about to crack open.

I guess you’re still in there, or

it’s the post-death shakes doing that to you.

It’s a little suffocating in here, I say alone.

Laughter follows, most likely mine.

Observing you sickens me.

Hands melted down to little toothy tumors.

Plaintive grin.

I want to take a helicopter out of this town

and start a new life in Paris; I want

to have my memory wiped like a chalkboard.

You’ve been thoroughly cooked by now.

I think it’s time to take you out.


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