Abecedarian for Old Habits

by Hallie Fogarty

 

Animalistic, you never met the

beast that whet my teeth. I turn

 

cyanide, leafing between tumults and

definite danger. I speak, if I must, and I must, so

 

every cheek turns toward me. I

figure things out the hard way:

 

gargantuan things will stay gargantuan and

hefty as ever, I am. In the

 

interest of time, I stumble over my secrets and

joke so my breath isn’t wasted. The

 

kilometer between wanting and having has

left the building. I find myself figuratively

 

meaning more than ever before.

Nothing has changed between us, so I

 

open up to you in the olfactory, old-fashioned sense,

purposeful and with emotions protruding.

 

Quickly I learned that no one wants to suffer without me,

rather they want to suffer because of me.

 

Siphon out the taste of being hunted,

tell me it isn’t delicious and sweet.

 

Understand that I never meant any harm until I meant it truly,

vehemently, permanently.

 

Whether it lasts is out of the question, none of my business. Your

xiphoid like my cranium, once it’s developed fully, it’s too late anyway.

 

You’ll want to have it looked at, once I’m away, when I’m

zealously in favor of anything that fixes you up.