This is the one in which we are milking the worms, but not of milk, but of crud and animal parts, the things it has eaten, like sticking our finger down their throats to induce vomiting, except we are really are milking are milking, squeezing it out of them like a tube of toothpaste. The Bangladeshi man encourages us on. Promises good meat. The skin rolls like a treadmill and we try not to be consumed by these worms as they rampage. These firehose sized worms… And then we eat. Thee slices are battered and fried and those of us with the Western palate do not take to the indulgence too well, despite the oversell. We have, perhaps, seen too much. We know where this food has been and that is more than our stomachs will...
I been out walking after midnight different this year than a year ago when I thought that you had been awakened by bad dreams and missing me. Oh, it is your birthday and I am prone to exaltations of and sporadic onamonopeia. I have spent a year searching for your heart. Thinking it is somewhere out there. There’s a song in it. When all along it is in your chest. I like being near your chest. I like sending you secret messages. I like the thought that with you I could have the life I always have imagined. I like that you are broken but growing, repairing. I think you will be great. You are great. The greatest predictor of the future is the past. Your ability to still see me this year, to still believe in me, and you, in some strange way… that is my 29th piece of you. You are so much better, more sound, more perfect, more beautiful, more everything than you know, or should know. Maybe you will one...
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