i had a twin who was 95% water. a twin who latched its mouth onto my heart and drank me dry.
consumption (in contemporary)
i had a twin who was 95% water. a twin who latched its mouth onto my heart and drank me dry. as we popped out of our mother’s womb, it burst on the sharp tiles, and i began to feast on its limbs. my mother told me that for the next few years, i would only drink water with its thumb placed in the water. without my twin, i would have been suspended in an eternal comatose. i lavished in its entrails, pulled at its arteries, fit my head into the empty chambers of its heart. i drank the very liquids that it had summoned out of me as a fetus. i could not exert my surrealist fantasies at a greater price. after i had finished my endeavors into the tendrils of my twin, i threw it into a deep crater in the backyard of my suburban home. the crater was the result of a word alone, a world set in the trajectory of why and what. we all have amnesia we all are tender.we are as bitter as we are salty as we are a delusion of nature. we are the difficult passions of love, we are together, my twin and i. i eat it just as i eat up myself, my reflection, my future, the metallic going-abouts of life. i hurtle through the universe at eighteen and a half miles a second, my twin sinking itself into my pores and slowly drifting out the back door.