Puddle of Milk

The first clothes I take off are my suede boots.

 

If I am playing strip poker with whoever took her away, I’m already one game ahead.

 

Next, the jacket drops to the floor.  Followed by tailored black pants.  Ivory silk blouse.  Bra and panties fall into the spilled milk which is stretching out across the floor like a white blood stain. 

Clothes.  They were all too heavy on me.

 

Leaning against the wall for support, I bang my head on it to be sure it’s solid.

 

This is all real.

 

Too real.

 

So I slide down the wall slowly.  Lie face down in the puddle.  Just my chilled skin on pure milk.  Absorbing vitamins and calcium through my pores to shore up my bones which have suddenly gone soft.  I’m like a pink kangaroo baby born premature.  Left the pouch too soon thinking I knew what the fuck I was doing.  But now I’m starving here by myself.  Have to face the fact that I probably won’t make it.

 

And why should I?  This is the way of things.  Think of all the baby water buffalo snapped underwater by alligators hiding beneath the wash during rainy season.  All the baby turtles picked off by birds before they can make it to the safety of the ocean.  How many of us are murdered before we even begin to partially bloom?  We are beyond counting.   We are Nature’s half-baked, and we are legion.

 

Click.

 

There’s someone still in this apartment.