Pistachio Microcuento

I have a green stain on my right pant leg, accented by the lipstick still on my fingernail. Despite blotting vigorously––trying to remove its green-ness from visibility, as if it had wronged me––I thought of trees and moss and the forested inner-world of my heart. 

How my heart itself is as vulnerable as the pistachio's cracked shell, easily halved and opened to the wildness of the wilderness. 

My stomach churns with the sweet softness of pistachio milk cake. 

My lips, painted orange, pink, and brown–the color of groves, 

aisles of trees–

savor the greenery that broke open for my tongue to catch and taste and spill.

The cake spilled down to my thigh, and even in disdain, I still brought it to my lips, my finger tips then stained by groves of fruit trees, 

transferred to the hands that wished to stamp out the memory of a heart open and opened,

beyond the bounds of my body.