She steals EXIT signs from office buildings and she places them over the doors of every room in her house.
So that she always has a way out.
Every evening at dusk she climbs onto the roof. She tells her housemates that she’s meditating. But she secretly reads the days news events to the evening sky.
So that god can learn from his mistakes.
She wants to be a better person, but she rarely finds room for it in her diary.
During a bout of extreme boredom she built a two metre high replica of the Eiffel Tower out of tubular pasta pieces.
When her golden friend saw it he said to her, “pasta is Italian, you should have used something French.”
She told him, “you try making the Eiffel Tower out of fucking croissants.”He acknowledged her point silently.
Then he told her, “your eyes look like crystal balls filled with lemonade.”
She replied “It’s not lemonade, it’s tequila.”
He wanted to know how she explained the bubbles then.
She told him that the bubbles were her eyes boiling from looking at the sun too long.
He knew she was bluffing and that it was lemonade and not tequila because he kissed her eyes once
and they tasted sweet.
Sweet like the cookies she bakes once a week in the shape of keys.
The key shaped cookies he knows about.
He thinks it’s cute.
What he doesn’t know is that every night before she goes to bed, she licks her finger and then she finger paints a door over her heart.
She hopes that one day the key shaped cookies will decipher the maze of her digestive system and find their way to her heart
and armed with a key shaped cookie
her heart
will finally escape
the cage of her will.
