They pass by your puffed inflated chest you are bow-legged and small eyed because of sighs, delusions, or failures.
Not the holes in your shoes you refuse to repair, but your hideous obsession with television shows— Each episode fantasy reenacts your prince character’s lesson, your talking points vacuous-timbered laughing at physics like a stuffed head hung on a mantle defying. The unloved, forest floor pine needles and cat piss.
I see finger prints on my parent’s wedding photos but I don’t remember whose. They’ve shifted under so many hands, and I forgot why I’m always in places I don’t want to be. I know there’s a good reason, but it slides out of my mind and so far from my tongue. While my sister’s dyeing Easter eggs, she writes “Fuck” on one, and draws a cross on the other. They sit side by side in the egg carton, and I want a cigarette but my mom will want one too. Smoking with her means insults hurled at the man in whose image I’m made. Everything I never wanted is a television set stuck on a murder a minute, phrases that turn into jokes the more they become truth. “Let it ride, baby girl.” I heard it as clearly as if you were sitting next to me in the breakfast nook of a yellow kitchen where framed Dala horse needle points line the walls.
“You’re so pretty,” he whispered delicately. His perfect pink lips were so close to my ear, I longed for them to meet, “Let me take you home tonight.”
He brushed a hair out of my face, sending goosebumps rippling throughout my body. I put my hand on his chest gently at first, but then I began to apply pressure as he howled in pain. I broke through his sternum and grabbed his still-beating heart to take a desperate, hungry bite. I laughed maniacally, swallowing chunks whole. I threw the rest on the ground and turned to flee. One woman in the bar began to slow-clap. Others joined. Soon all of the women were on their feet, applauding and cheering like a twisted jr. high pep rally. And you know what I did, right there in that bar after the full glory of my triumph? I slipped on a pile of blood. I blushed, muttered “excuse me” and ran to the bathroom humiliated. I guess some things never change!
A man with a blurry face asked me to dance. He cooed in my ear with Neil Armstrong swagger “What are you thinking?” Implied: I am the first man on the moon. This is what I am thinking:The black mamba and his ten thousand scales. The pills, and the dandelion. The lovers who spit my teeth out and laugh. They laugh at my gap-toothed grin. They lick my body expecting honey, then recoil tasting everything but. My father’s beard, my mother’s wrists, and the way they will share a coffin even though they hate each other. The way Law and Order becomes company just like nothing becomes food and bad days become a way of life and tears become the flu. Or a cold. Or tired. Or busy. What the fuck does he know about the nights stacked on top of each other, 8,366 high. It’d be pretty easy to dig right through me, since he has no idea what he’s looking for. I’d spit dirt in his eye, but I’m worried I just might heal him.