I toss my tantrums to the apricot walls with last year’s toys, their nicked batteries splaying in transient stains across the whisky tiling. Leak in Christmas ribbon crimsons, desperate innards shimmering in gaudy tissue. Of course, I call this crying. I tear at my own gears like gutting pumpkins; I squelch like a rotten gourd. Of course, I can’t call this crying. The frontal lobe sneaks out in the guise of melting crayons, skinned like the shadows of runaways and their coughing grey trains. I am a child. Thank you for the womb. I wasn’t good today. Thank you for the goo.