Peppermint divinity

I snipped off the wart from the knuckle of my thumb with nail clippers that were made in China. I know that they were made in China because I bought them for fifteen cents at Dan’s Drug Store. I clipped the wart off, aware that it would bleed, but I didn’t care. I needed it off- rid of. I needed this excess growth thrown in the bathroom garbage amongst a pillow of used tissues and strings of green dental floss. The job contract fell through. I made my way over in flip-flops to the abandoned picnic table behind the tree in the yard. I didn’t want to see anyone, talk to anyone, or spend any words on an explanation. After the initial, short-term satisfaction of the wart being removed, blood formed a dark red bubble over the scar. I knew what to do: find a milkweed plant, snap a leaf off, and then put the acid white liquid into the wound. I welcomed the sting of the milk killing unwanted cells of my body. I wanted the memories and anticipation of a perfect job erased from my being as the wart from my thumb. Burn, I thought as I dripped the pure white poison onto the scar. There was too much blood so I brought a paper towel from my pocket and dabbed it in the wound. The towel sucked up bright red against gravity. I added more milk. The red and white formed a bright peppermint swirl as fresh blood was enticed to the scene (the poison has extractive qualities). I breathed fresh air and unbuttoned my shirt to the sun as it revealed itself, then hid sporadically behind clouds. Once the blood pooled, I dabbed the paper towel on the scar and created another triangle shaped stain on the white surface. Bumble bees grazed on purple flowers and a hummingbird flew across the air and into the tree above me, where it had a nest. With the bleeding nearly stopped, I walked barefoot to snap another leaf off of the wounded milkweed plant. There was geese shit everywhere. Avoiding the feces, I sat back down and let the milkweed stem feed purity into the roots of the endemic wart. Again it drew peppermint swirls. Dab went the paper towel, now covered in triangles of different shades of red. There was little room left for fresh stains. I folded, unfolded and refolded the towel to plan another mark. On went more milk. Under the tree by the picnic table I sat, my wart and shirt open to the world, scorned by opportunity and burning from a war of divinity.