pistachio

it's like time that we let our own layers shed away. like grime off as rain comes. like old leaves off with wind. I continue to react, to adapt, to survive. Even with conversation, with favors, with manners. They remain a clamped-down clam much of the time. A stubborn pistachio shell split on one side, and at times a bit more open than at others, but it remains shut, unwilling to split the fuck open and speak and live through raw desire. barely no ever yes perhaps why not