One night soil falls out of my mouth. Loamy and sandy. Piles and piles on my kitchen floor. I fight the urge to roll in it, feel it brush against my skin, clump it together in my fists. Instead, I sweep it into a pile on the tile. I’ll figure out what to do with it tomorrow. In the morning my body is stiff and covered in brown flakes instead of hair. Underneath the flakes, my skin is shiny and pore-free. The hair on my head has twined together in sections. Kinked and curled. Maybe it’s a trick of light but my hair looks more fair. Exhausted, I can barely keep my legs up at the sink. I stop trying. Head for sustenance in the kitchen. The toast I butter tastes like dirt. The dirt on the floor tastes like buttery steak with a loaded baked potato. I plant myself in the pile I made. Rake it closer with my fingers, luxuriating in the way it strokes me. Silt like silk. My feet curl toward my bottom. I wrap my arms around my knees. Twist toward the sun. My ropy hair turns white. My gleaming body hardens. Tips sideways to the floor where my roots tongue the soil. I’m not tired anymore.
