by alloe mak

there is mold in my bathroom.

its partly my fault; i enjoy watching the pores of my walls sweat after i shower. i revere being freshly baked; steaming like a bun out of the oven—slow cooked, and pink on the inside. raw skin peeling as if the yeast has risen too high.
in that room with no windows, the fog never clears. i bake evenly in the hot air, my body wet and buttered by my lotions.
the walls breathe.
they suffocate, they mold.
i mold.
boiling, curled, and numb, i am reborn every day. a blossoming meringue blooming from the stiff air, i have mastered the baking of my human body.

but there is mold.
my pastries are starting to become covered in it, and my teeth clench that i have to restart so many batches. i shower time and time again to try and scrub all the mold away and to remake myself perfectly, yet doing so only creates more.
i keep my fan turned off and wonder what ignorance is.

baking requires effort. it is an art within itself—perfectly measured ounces of shampoos and cups of conditioners specific to the action at hand. it is tedious to knead skin and muscle—to design, to mold, to create, to let a body bloom is an act meant for gods alone.

mold is more natural. mold grows exponentially without any help. it festers and expands. it thrives without care and grows unconditionally.
mold is fit for mortals.

recently, i have started to find beauty in mold. i curse at myself for doing so; i know the act is self immolating—a detrimental choice that will lead to my own demise. i wonder if cognizance is partly where the awe comes from.
destruction of the self—mold which i allow to seep into my carefully crafted goods and perfect oven.
i watch the pores spread, and there is that foolish sense of calm.
i think i am tired of baking.

the mold spreads, and it is beautiful.
i wonder if complete digestion is inevitable.
i begin to welcome it.
i suppose i have never had a sweet tooth.