Side

I’m glad no one reads this

Because in the shadows of this concave

I’ve told you all I ever wanted

From these past couple years

And you’d never pick up

Through the metaphors and garbage

But the struggling sensations

Are enough

Just let it be.

.me.

Obviously

Shit

Shit

And with those words

I saw it coming

With her secret little smile

And the way you bowed your head

I was the spider in the corner

Scuttling side to side, wanting you to notice

And please leave me be

Put away the newspaper

Rolled up tight rolled up tight rolled up rolled up rolled up

So Damn Tight.

And you can grin at me all you want

With that vote-worthy shimmer

And the bigness of your ambivalence

You big big big fake

I don’t feel so bitter

As stupid and crushed

Feeling crushed

From a mush

In the middle of Oregon on a hot sunny day

I’m the mud on your shoes

As you wade through the marsh

Holding her hand to support her dainty ballet.

You can’t DO me like this, mama.

I haven’t felt so in a long while

Had pushed it away in lullaby comforts

Does everyone have to follow the songs

And accept the power of carnal affections?

I reffUSE

You are nothing

And still a smile

Branded top my skin

Shit

Shit shit shit

I’ve never been so fuddled

As when I heard those words

And realized that I was as stupid as I sounded

And worse

As stupid as I knew as stupid as I knew it would always be and

Best

Stupid as shiiiiiiit.

.me.

Tea and Toad and Tea and Toad and Tea

She drank her tea beside the toad, and didn’t speak once. And eventually his gullet, like a great balloon, swiveled his head yonder and he locked blackened pupils on the lines of her face.

“I’m drinking my tea.” She protested calmly, an edge to her tone. She took another sip, for effect.

Her misted grey eyes stared out at the swamp with waves that matched the wisped clouds above and the slosh of the algae below. And the delicacy of the teacup in her hand showed the travesty of her fingers, thick with caked mud and sliding grass stains as she twisted the porcelain in slow half circles, periodically raising the lip to her tongue to taste the swirling black liquid. A pink ribbon twisted and wriggled in her hair, tugging at its hold as the wind whipped it feverishly behind her thick chestnut hair.

Only shoulder length. Mother didn’t like it any longer.

The edge of her tongue tasted her pink gums, collected the tea’s residue into the back of her throat as she cast her eyes to the moss of her sullen perch.

“I’m cold. Let’s go in.”

Indeed, her pale arms rose with goosebumps on the full flesh. She placed the cup beside her and rose in stages to her feet, bending to collect it once more as the toad picked up its gaze to peer at her. Speculatively. She wouldn’t get away that easy, not before her morning dues.

“What if I…sing for you?” she offered, swishing her hands back and forth idly as she met his gaze and found the childish innocence he so adored. It wasn’t natural in her blushing cheeks anymore. Now she harnessed it in the ultimate satire.

He was not so easily bought. He garbled, and the balloon at his throat wobbled to and fro – a warning sign. She blew out her cheeks, grinding her teeth back and forth as she charted the possible take-downs. “I’ll…write for mother. ALL morning, stitch and stitch til my fingers bleed.” She pushed every word with painful emphasis, playing up the agony of such a prospect. It was worth the trade, she would work for her comfort.

He hopped, two feet forward and a shake of his rotten gullet. Her knees locked as she pulled her body back from him, breathing roughly through her nose. She could’ve cried or stamped or shown him a wicked face. But instead she caved and softened her brown-o eyes, hanging her head in the shameful way she’d seen in all of Auntie’s favorite stage plays.

“So let’s go, then. My shoes will be filthy and I won’t be able to stop coughing for weeks but if this is what you want, then alright. Alright. Alright.” She rumpled her nose and twisted it round to show her discomfort, and he gloated with a thick thump of his throat.

He hopped to turn, thrust his oily back at her, and lopped and flopped around the marsh. She lumbered in his trail, kicking off patches of stringy moss from her feet and swaying to and fro with the moans of the bayou.

“And papa was a lonely man…he kissed me til I could not stand…round and round the table legs…another day for other days…” She sang softly, filling the grey air with her soupy voice.

Crows and caterpillars followed her voice long after her footsteps had stopped squelching, the weight of her frame rising up with a suck and a pop. And their ribs and feathers spoke to one another with a rustle and a squinch, for soon their winds would cease to blow and the green would leave the marsh – and the girl would die at talons and guts before they’d see it fall.


.me.