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Ella Zalon


fill up a glass with all the time i’ve wasted and dump it in our compost bin. at least it will be my own time spent omitting carbon, and that’s got to be valued somewhere. whatever ends up in the cup, be it fish bones, lemon seeds or unfinished math sheets, it’s mine. don’t be so afraid to touch the contents; they came from someone with anxieties, insecurities, and the incapacity to accept that time and space go on, just like you. that’s worth something, somewhere. 

designate a box for the things I don’t use anymore, like the shirt mom gave me, I used to love it. well, honestly it made a transition to the part of my shirt drawer that I ignore- where the unimagined inanimate whither, i’d rather have really lost them. 

fill up a glass with all the things I pretend aren’t, and leak them into my subconscious, let them loose somewhere I can’t get them out, so I trip on guilt when I run to catch the bus and miss it. or maybe the driver won’t let me pass without the ten cents he’s never made me pay before and it will be karma, which I didn’t believe in, and not believing in it will have been another cause. 

I think if you filled cups with all the lemon juice I’ve consumed you’d see quite a scary line up, I acquired a taste for sour from my mom’s side, lots of them liked bitter things, hard things, hard drinks, stuff that tears walls down; will my enamel decay? I sipped lemon water from a recently rehabilitated relative’s cup (perhaps they were artfully sugar coating a sinful craving),
and thought I am living in reverse. 

there is no such thing as empty. 
 
 
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