i am empty; i am full

i am standing under the old castle on the cliff and when the cannons fire, i cry and i cry and i cry. i must have died in a war, i think, half lucid as my whole body shakes in the rain. (how did they fire if the fuses were wet?) my parents shove soggy bread down my throat in an attempt to stave the tears, to take my mind off of the sounds of gunfire and a thousand emotions from a thousand memories i cannot scramble to retrieve. it feels like lead in my gullet; i am foie gras pre-butchery, slender neck gagging and voiceless.

i hate the eyes that follow me as i make my way down to breakfast. taxidermy preserves some semblance of the natural, turning it twisted. i do not dream of being chased by foxes. the fox's eyes are not glassy, its fur is not matted or covered in dust. its mouth is not contorted, forever gaping as a glassy-eyed pheasant lies stiff in its jaws. the pampered skulls of a dozen poultry are trained on the back of my head, my hands, my stomach, as i hurry past them. i do not dream of foxes, but i fear the day i do.

we are walking sun-kissed streets and my mother buys a bag of roasted chestnuts from a street vendor and i laugh when she bites into it and spits it out; it is rotten and i laugh and prod at the blackened remains and i laugh because i am not hungry, no i am not hungry, i would never take a rotten chestnut and taste the disease coating the cavern of my mouth; i would never become such a primal creature, no, no, no; mother you have made the loftier mistake; i remain content and the emptiness in my stomach only grows.