fake watermelon 

sell me something that makes
my mouth water. for the most part,
i prefer the fake fruit tastes to the real ones.
something uniform & expected 
in a world of roulette sundays. 
banana candy & a grape soda dark. 
i scroll in the highway video
& every other oracle is a girl who is
hoping you will buy her tongue
from her mouth. 
i put peach rings on my fingers & go to
a job interview at the dead people place.
my partner makes fun of me
for wanting to go back to wage labor
after living off of a golden goose. 
the interviewer is a woman i have met before
who is thinking, "how easy will they
be to hurt?" she asks me what kind
of ghost i would be. i am the poltergeist always. 
i took karate as a kid & i remember nothing
but the smell of sweat & those gymnastics mats. 
don't tell my dad though, he's always been
really invested in me becoming a killing
machine & not the state-sanctioned kind.
once i save a bird from the tall grass. 
his wing was hurt & he was begging
for some sour patch watermelon candies.
i told him we should find him a real fruit.
i taught him how to fly again. he stole
a strand of my hair as a memento. i hope he
was just being sentimental & not planning
on some witchcraft but you know,
if he is i'm flattered. i might as well 
collect another hex. the fake watermelons
knock on the doors at night. my partner says,
"please don't let them in." i usually do 
& just hope he doesn't notice. i am not good
at being a wife. i am also not good at being
a husband. i enjoy most just being
something kept. a door inside a door.
i don't buy candy most of the time. i don't have
a reasonable hunger. i put off my cravings
so long that i just want to eat through
the day & into the midnight. juice down 
my face. the fake watermelons with their 
almost laughter. the sandpaper sugar
of a good sour dream. it is hard to be full
in a place like this.