I am a fork, metaphorically.

The daily prompt: Fork

I want to soften myself.
I trace the jagged edge of the four pronged fork with my thumb, admiring the rise and fall, the unending binary of this spartan machine, and it reminds me of who I was trying to be.

But this, is not a success story. Now, I am a half-carved fork, half binary, blank and prongs and half muted metal of reality. And adaptable.
Leave me in the freezer, and I will absorb the cold as diligently as I would the heat from flames.

But I want to soften myself. I’m tired of the edges, the constant piercing and skewering of my half-mutated identity.
So tired.
The muted metal glows dully on the kitchen table, my potential as a weapon barely discernable through my baleful indifference.

I want to soften myself.
I feel like plasticine exposed to the elements, chewy, crumbling instead of moulding. I feel drained, admiring how completely senseless everything actually is.

I plow on, lashing, lashing do you think Medusa grew tired of the venom dripping from her hair? I wonder if snow white hating being fair.
I wonder, why forks are hollowed out, forever stranded in thin spikes of solitude.
I look at how completely isolated each prong is, it oddly reminds me of my self, surrounded by a moat of tiresome reality.


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