The Corpse.

I'm in bed. So are the chips. In a packet.

I have been rolling around for the past hour. My leg brushes the plastic enough times for me to know the shape by feel alone. The serrated edges at the top and bottom. The smooth cover that gives way every time my heel presses into it accidentally.

I want to forget it's there so I can live my life. But control has never been in my hands.

There was a woman I saw who recommended buying an obnoxious amount of chocolate and storing it to help with addiction. Because surely they wouldn't be able to finish the entire collection, right?

I think my body came into existence to answer that question. Because I think I could. If anyone thought abundance could outpace desire, I would seek to be the exception. 

The chips didn't have a chance. I felt like those lionesses in National Geographic hunting their prey. My hands let the plastic rest, staring at it longer than I do my course books.

Studying its next move even as it can't move. I think that's the issue. It's right there, how could I ever say no?

My fingers are coated with evidence. The blood of the chips covers my skin, the chili powder-like hue serving as nail polish. I think the roof of my mouth is cut up. My tongue is tired. My stomach says no more.

"If only my teeth could talk," said one of my friends. A lily in the valley, if you will. They would talk of the crisp, the consumption, and the crunch. The aftermath of my crime.

You wouldn't think they were once caged in metal and beaten into shape. Shaved off to perfection. The feeling of a sharp object prodding their fences, a monthly occurrence years ago. You wouldn't think so with the way they have gone from being twins to cousins. One leaning back, the other nosy.

My mother has the same set. All three of us got the same ones. All three tell different stories. Mine imprisoned for a while; you would think it would stay in shape because of it, but no, "it let itself go."

Couldn't even pretend to follow the law for a while. The retainers weren't touched, and so the teeth looked like they never were.

I am forming a gap between the front two. A family outlier, even when it was beaten into submission. It strays wayward 

I don't mind it; it won't be passed down, but at least it has a story. This is how I soothe myself about mistakes, as you call them. Maybe the stain on the shirt has a story. One laugh out of one mistake. Maybe a friend gained, a shirt lost.

The packet of chips, empty, torn up, lies on top of my dustbin. Nothing left for the vultures unless they come for my flesh. 

Claw it all apart to find something salvagable. They would find a number of things, the bloodied crisps, the disappointing chocolates, and my everlasting regret.

Perhaps the corpse of a good writer, too. I wonder what it tastes like.