I'm washing the dishes and
there's a grain of burnt rice sticking to the side of the sink. I keep
looking at it thinking it's an insect even though I know exactly what it is,
that it's only a grain of rice that fell out of the pan when I was cooking
earlier.
But it's looking meaner
now. Bigger. Hardened and shiny like the back of a bug that leaves a smear
of something gross behind it.
You gotta keep on top of this
shit or it gets out of control, just like the greeting cards that remind me of
everyone I don't talk to
anymore. Mom-Dad-Tammy-Janet-Grandma-Matt. All these colorful cards I
taped to my blank fridge a long time ago because they matched my
kitchen. They looked so pretty back then but now collect clots of dust,
making everything sad and filthy with their faded, brittle paper and warped
corners. I should really trash them but can't quite bring myself to do it,
just like I can't bring myself to squash this bug whose crusty ugliness seems
to remind me of something else. Something good, maybe.
I have to kill it,
though. What am I waiting for?
Ashley Hutson
Autoportrait
Édouard Levé