|Blood moon over Gaza City, 2007.|
Her blood is in the toilet again. Perhaps she is purging old myths. She needs new stories, new endings in which the phone rings inquisitively, a bright prize buzz, a shiny sound. The blood in the toilet reminds her of her wedding suite, the valentine-shaped tub, the ketchup red gloss of love. Its top, its sides she has chewed for years, after she ate her own heart.
(originally published in Word Riot here