the dish didn't run away

i think, if i had to choose between porcelain eyes and plastic teeth, i'd curl up in the silverware drawer and listen to the sound of the dishwasher screaming. i'd try to pay attention to what the forks were picking apart, or what the spoons were dishing out, or what the knives were viciously ripping apart, and i'd try to see if any of their petty rumors and shit-talking were about me and my fragile state.

i'd listen to see if the plates in the cupboard were talking about the bedside lamp upstairs, or if the chandelier in the dining room was talking about the fish swimming lethargically in the bowl on the counter, and how the orange one had gotten so fat, and the white one looked like it needed to eat a fucking sandwich, you could see her ribs. i'd try not to think about my bony hips against yours.

i'd hear the pillows on the couch in the living room talking about how the front door is having an affair with the window, even though the window is supposed to be dating the dishwasher. would that explain her screaming? i'd almost want to crawl out of the silverware drawer and ask her if she would be okay, but i'd think she'd look at me and my porcelain eyes and decide that she'd rather be the cheated-on dishwasher than the girl who was almost an inanimate object.

i think i'd rather be her, too.