what do you do when you can see them but they don’t see you? sip the oil from the top of the vinaigrette through your labrum — quick, before it’s shaken squeeze through the gap below the bedroom door into the early sunrise conversations, then whisper their secrets to the kitten leave the spoon in the sink, handle caked with instant coffee powder when the arguments start, push a can of tuna off the fourth shelf from the bottom. watch them jump at the clatter of aluminum. the French-cut green beans are next — exacerbate what you can you don’t need their blood or the guts of the open sugar packets left out on the counter they don’t see you — pull it all apart — because you can ✱✱✱
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