Inside me is a boiling brass kettle screaming on a hot stove. As if a frantic teapot could be contained without spilling over. As if the shrill cry of a steaming pot bawling on the burners could be muffled. Inside me is tiny China. Teacups clack against matching plates. I mean to control my tremors and cries, but I was raised by soothing chamomile, and I never liked the aftertaste. My mother taught my mouth to close. Would you rather spend the rest of eternity with your body trapped on a blazing burner or with hot water drowning you from the inside out?
By Anne DeJonge