A kitchen. Broad, like an open set in a music video. Floating beige shelves, island counter, grey marble. Soft light fluttering in through yellow linen curtains, a small breeze floats in. It smells like summer. You’re near the sink, standing with your back to the counter, looking at your feet. You have a faded old navy-blue shirt and trousers on; a belt holds it in place.
I’m the blender. Off white, not new but not old, just the right amount of used. I’m plugged in, a semi-solid mix of beets, shame, bananas, guilt and whatever else they put in a smoothie. The switch is on, and so I blend, with force, intensity, and speed, red liquid flying everywhere.
It’s on the roof, on the floor, on the walls, on your clothes.
It’s in your hair, in your hands, on your face, on your pants.
It’s residue, from past lives, it keeps me stuck as a blender- I am a blender without a lid.
No, you cannot kiss this frog into a prince.
I’m embarrassed.
Why are you here?
Why do you still stand next to me when I’m spilling all over?
I blend faster; it’s like I’m daring you to leave me. What will you do when it falls on your eyes, itches in your nose? What if it burns on your skin?
You take a step back. Ah, I have finally pushed you out, haven’t i?
I tried to keep it in me- God, I try- but I have no lid, I can’t stop.
Why do you bother with staying?
No one will reward you for your kindness
No one is looking, save yourself, go
You can’t kiss this beast into a king.
I turn away from you, don’t want to watch you leave.
But I look back to find you’re still here, still getting drenched, talking to someone, occasionally wiping the red liquid from your face.
I’ve not seen a greater declaration of love.
One day, when all of it is spilt, I’ll be calmer. The spirals will stop. One day, when you aren’t looking, you’ll notice the splatter has stopped. You’ll turn to see me, on the counter, off white shirt and shorts, dripping from head to toe, not in red but water. Timid, newborn human.
