Rank 1

I feel like a discarded zip loc bag with a breadstick still in it. My mouth slightly ajar, debris covering my body, there is no kind of solitude than this. I am upset. What I mean to say is my stomach is upset. The rotting breadstick in my loins has given me nothing but heartache when it once tasted good but all I can taste now is mold. And there is no medicine in it. There is no comfort only raging infection. I can not expect anyone to love something rotten. Much less you. Not because you aren’t worthy of it. But because I could not stand getting your beautiful hands dirty in something as soiling as me.

-What happens when he has dug into me like a child in a mud pie contest and I look up and he is still smiling. What then?