baked

the edges burn faster than the middle, writhing inward before expanding again into an s-shape. in a pan used to bake sympathy bread flavored with prime candidates for compost, each letter is incinerated and flares up in protest.

letters may burn but their dough, needles, conspirators and recipes remain intact. the pages yawn into a mini-inferno...i drop the match through the metal slats and hear an inquisitive groan from the steps below. it lands between the lobe and the skull of our resident chainsmoker, and i realize that we're sharing vices...or at least, the aftermath of killer hobbies. in solidarity, here is a scorched emblem of my revenge.

speculation: did you kick the vanilla air freshener out of the socket in the hallway, down three flights, and shatter the innocent thing on the first floor? do we owe our scented mail to your momentary ebenezer strike on compromise? did our fragrant hint inspire a violent attack on a small votive of essential oils? now we live in a hookah lounge, the meshing and blending of strangers sharing living space, edging sideways, narrating prejudices, avoiding eye contact, but privy to private scents that tattle and reveal.