Chloe Mayo

Silly little birdy, I met you online, don’t show me yours, I won’t show you mine, when straining pasta, you may lose a few strands, but make sure to enjoy the ones that stick around, if I die before I wake I left a pasta bake, in the fridge and if I say so myself, it was to Die for, it feels like a female syndrome, so much the weakness of animals that have always been prey, she makes me feel like prey and eats green vegetables with high water content, that one appeared to me in a dream, Vitamin b, crab salmon skim milk beef liver clams goose eggs oysters swiss cheese mussels, I see the grief as I wipe my finger through the final lick of cream sauce, slither under my skin, a sopping flannel, sexy, I’m pretty good at that too, what are you listening to at the moment? If I say it too many times it makes me want to cut out my tongue, heat packs pain killers paracetamol and ibuprofen vagisil juice wet wipes tissues, swallowing syrup, Love by Angela Carter, Mrs Midas by Carol Ann Duffy, I learned about angel hair pasta (aka capelli d’angelo) via Nirvana lyrics, this is the main italian food thing I learned from grunge.