She refuses to buy fruit at the supermarket…

She refuses to buy fruit at the supermarket, complains to me that everything seems too whole. Remedy this by cutting cross-sections of everything back at home.  The couch splits hungrily; the fridge puts up more of a fight.  She develops a fascination with x-ray machines, of seeing inside herself from the third-person.  Quietly, sew tiny strands of lead into her favorite sweater.  From this angle our house is paper-thin.  From this angle she is a skeleton.  She tells me: melatonin is a block of the food pyramid.  She tells me: lampposts are the life-blood of any small town.  Taped to the floor under our bed is an aerial photograph of our street.  She likes the idea of falling from the sky when she sleeps.