My final for my Creative Writing Class:

He is staring at me. I walk through white lights that hum and rubber tiles that count my steps, but his gaping mouth brings me through aisles full of cardboard and plastic. I am eating up the lines, feeling heavier with each step. I find that the burial scene of the body and its bits has been here on display. Laid in buckets of ice, hot eyes glare at me, waiting for me to grab him. Through the glass I hear him squealing over the man that smiles yellow teeth and sees with dark brown eyes. His sterile white shirt smells of the blood that runs through his own hands. But I try to never mind all that I see and keep to looking past the man and down into the squealing mouth. 

I do not see why the man smiles so, the pig head did yell at me from across the room. Why can’t the man hear him squealing? He should, for he was the one that placed the head on the tin platter. In all this pitter-patter of stepping and longing I let the pig head know, “you are a poor pig. How disrespectful. I respect you.” The pig head replies with a “Please help,” and then states “I am buried in ice and it makes me feel lifeless,” and continues on with telling of time that ticks slow because the people pass so often and look at nothing but hot swollen eyes that once held the water that holds him. He says, “Why can’t I spit the blood that lead me here. I am frozen in time, laid to rest on a table of ice that is always melting away.”

To all of this, I say in a small whimpering sort of way that, “I cannot help you because there is this sheet of glass between you and me. And the man that put you here, he tries to grab my attention with your pieces. I do not understand how you have become this way, for your head is much bigger than mine, which means you are much smarter than I. And if you are smarter than me, why does your head rest on a platter?” And to this the pig head is silent.  His glass eyes bend down to look about him and I look about him to find that he seems to have faded into the glare of the glass. I then find myself staring at the head that holds my tears, laying about in a bed of frozen water. Placed below the man that smiles yellow teeth and sees with brown eyes. His sterile white shirt smells of the blood that runs through my own hands.