Open Wide

Short Story | Fiction

I spread my legs open and stick my hand inside. I pull and pull and pull until I draw out the essence of all the things that have stacked inside of me like a genetic Jenga. It hurts coming out; it might be the squareness of it all—the sharp edges. I grit my teeth and continue to pull.

I lay them out in a neat row. Organized by size. Organized by color (yes, they’re all a dusty red). I decide I should reorganize by smell instead. I close my legs, ignoring the thick wetness that has slathered itself there like peanut butter on warm toast. I get on all fours and lean forward and work my way down the line, sniffing each block.

This one smells like curdled milk; it reminds me of that one bowl that sat on the counter for three days when you were in the hospital, and I was too busy breaking down to notice it had turned. I move it to the bottom of the line.

This one smells like watermelon lime, the taste of your tongue in summer on an open blanket under the giant tree. I can feel you growing hard underneath me. I moan as I sniff it again. I shift that one to the middle of the line.

This one smells like a memory I struggle to chase. I rub my fingers around the edges still wet with the juice of my insides. It’s tacky; still, the memory eludes me. I wonder if it is purposeful—the memory block. What am I hiding from myself? What. Am. I. Hiding? I rub my thighs together at the half-dry moisture. The feeling is almost soothing. Almost.

Move my head back and forth between the blocks, up and down the line. Try to remember why I even bothered to line them up. Kneel instead. Push my legs together. Press my bottom into my heels. Push my head (eyes closed) back back until the heaviness of it feels like my head is Sisyphus’s boulder and lifting it is the sole task I’ve been cursed with.

I open my eyes and see you then towering over me. Your massive form, your smell of a dirty oven, remnants of meals long enjoyed. There’s a plate in your hand. You take your right hand. Caress the left side of my face. I nestle into it even though I feel like I shouldn’t. You take that same hand and trace the bottom curves of my lips. It makes me want to cry. It makes me want to whimper too.

You don’t have to say anything. You kneel in front of me. Place the plate down in front of my knees. There’s no smile on your face, just tears that splatter onto the array of blocks stacked there. I wonder how I’ll be able to swallow them, and then I think tears can be lubricant too.

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Been a few weeks. This was a short piece to shake the cobwebs off. It’s circular in a way, and I really like the ending. It’s a little dark or a lot, depending on how you look at it. BTWWWWW we made it to 1000 subscribers HOLY SHIT!! bahahahaha that’s pretty awesome. Thanks to each and every one of you.

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