melon with fingers

Dead bugs taped to the wall

The weight of the squeaky cat's head on my knee

You can be honest with animals because they don’t speak

The same language so you can say the stuff you wouldn’t

He gutted me like seeds from a melon

With fingers and so urgent 

That I bled

Suddenly I remember the squash in the oven

It’s brown almost charr but not burnt

Not ruined. In fact it’s such a good texture

Very soft almost silky kind of buttery and with crisp corners

Caramel for the sugar of the dirt grown fruit

It makes my meal excellent

I remember my music teacher from middle school

Who taught us the tin whistle and gave us each our own

With soggy name labels wrapped below 

The mouth piece

And we kept them in a container all together

Fumbled in begrudging hands when class started

I know the feeling of the plastic in my mouth

Smooth and perfect for chewing and gripping

Then clanked back in spit logged and dripping

When class was over

Sitting together in the bin joining wet

And likely never cleaned