shit

She watched him shit on her porch; her hands were trembling like a waterfall, with the wind blowing harder than it should have been as she crossed the rope bridge. Half-hoping it would break, a quarter hoping that she would smash, and an eighth desiring nothing more than the salvation she knew she would never find, she couldn't do the math to make everything add up to one. Calcified and hardened until she was a statuesque version of what she could have breathed a few minutes ago, she chose only to smoke like a model and live up the fantasies that had plagued her nightmares for so long. She would've gotten tattooed a lot earlier, but she had promised her demi-god that her body was their temple. It should've been her own; she forgot how to worship herself, though. Her schedule was always full when she wanted the most to slide into her pillowcase and disappear from the ramifications of the optionality of existence. It was a lot for her to take on Sunday afternoons, when the churchgoers took off their nice shoes and her pause button had broken. She sat on her porch and watched the moonshine eventually fill up her bathtub and the sky, in that order. She enjoyed the act of watching, even when she knew she couldn't stop all the train wrecks that were heading for a straight, explosive collision. But the beauty of her yellowing skin and her yellowing eyes and her yellowing teeth remained most firmly planted in the fact that nobody really noticed when she was there, but everybody noticed when she was gone. That was how she saw him shit on her porch.
She lit it on fire and then watched the whole house burn.