My therapist called my trauma multi-leveled like a biscuit. The flaky kind, you know.
Biscuit is the name my partner and I picked out for the dog we may never get. Unfortunately.
I bought a box of cheddar biscuit mix and baked them with both boyfriends. I wonder if I’m repeating old things?
Only my mom could make biscuits from a can seem like they came straight from a baker.
Only my mom could make me question my sanity and the reasons I consider walking into traffic.
When cats knead you, we say they’re making biscuits. What is it called when I need you?
Because it does kind of feel like I’m bursting at the seams, sometimes.
My therapist makes a peeling motion as she talks about my trauma and I am laughing because I picture the butter on her hands and taste crisp edges in my mouth and I didn’t know,
You could laugh at this.
In the Regency, romance novel I am reading, the man with (what I imagine to be) a great ass walks to the sideboard and shovels “biscuits” into his mouth before he drowns his tea. He cannot explain to the lady that he wants his dick down her bodice, and I can’t help but to want a sideboard dedicated to biscuits and tea.
I have imagined him across from me many times, a plaid shirt and smelling like cedar beard oil. His coffee is cold because we have not been able to stop talking. The gravy on his biscuits has gone to glue.
The first girl I have had a crush on sat on my front stoop and I imagined baking things for her. Although not biscuits maybe boxed brownies because she was brown beauty and good god, biscuits just wouldn’t do. Did she know how my belly found the floor when she smiled?
My therapist continued to pull away layers and I am laughing.
Sarah Thomas is a social media specialist based in Chicago. She waxes poetic about giant robots and is reverent towards gas station coffee. She writes Black sexuality and feminism.