You paint the house eggshell white like a boring bitch on HGTV. You add pops of yellow: yolky chairs, fake lemons, and whatever golden artwork you can find. You want to be an egg, sunny side up. You want someone to pick up their greasy fork and poke you right in the middle until everything you keep in comes pouring out in a slimy river. It needs to happen quickly, before you harden like a rock full of protein. Climate change cooks you alive with every heat wave, but you think crying about it is the opposite of being courageous. Maybe it’s better to scramble yourself, lose your shit entirely, explode every feeling into sunset cumulonimbus. Maybe it’s better to wait until your sanity starts to boil.

You dream of kitchen tables, of coffee brewing next to your nonstick pan. You want someone to hunger for you, to scoop you up no matter how messy you are that day. You want to be loved like a diner’s breakfast special.