I'll tell you Fingertip secrets Whispered Softly Inside
Your blouse.
blouse.
Author: david badgerow
0
Date: 12/07/2019
№ 697873
Blouse
While father comdemns socialism And mother thinks I am doing fine I lay awake like the pattern goes Rewinding my lies And rubbing the truth out of my memory Until all I know Is the need
-cj
blouse.
Author: charlotte
0
Date: 29/12/2018
№ 558558
Spit up on my favorite blouse
I've been cracking my knuckles since I was six, But back then my bones were still practically cartilage.
My mother could only make me stop during dinner. Her brass voice echoed through the house, Like the trumpets in a marching band on the Fourth of July. (Although not as patriotic. )
My mother didn't know about all the times I cracked My knuckles when I was by myself.
Sweet sixteen and the joints between my fingers still Crunched secretly under my skin and between What was now developed into hard white bone.
I've only broken one bone in my entire life.
It was my nose during my homecoming soccer game, Senior year, under the lights and across the street From the stone-cold brick building that housed My Catholic education.
Soccer balls have hit my stomach and my chest countless times, Leaving hexagonal imprints in scratchy blotches of red Over an empty envelope of acid and oxygen.
This time it hit me and I fell to the cold and frozen dirt, My jersey conforming to the brown-green of roughened grass And the blood from my nose providing contrast And complement all at once.
Someone picked me up and I became conscious and self-conscious That someone's hands could touch my skin and That someone's hands could feel my body.
My hands hung off the sides of the stretcher I didn't need (I thought it was crazy, all this fuss over a broken nose) And they swung as I was carried, bringing blood To my knuckles so that they could swell and expand.
My mother tripped over her questions When she asked if I could Breathe or eat or speak or if my choking was cause for concern.
ВЂњB-b-baby don't d-d-die, I m-m-made rice and b-beans. B-b-baby don't d-d-die, I m-m-made your f-f-f-f-favorite. ”
You tied me in a robe and stuck a tube down my throat. B-b-baby don't d-d-die, It's your f-f-favorite.
This terribleness. The blur of traffic lights and puddles paints Los Angeles on my face at night. It's so hard to know who will doze in my blind spots. Sunflower seeds and cocaine lining the carpet. I sat on the front porch for five hours gutting the wolves from my appendices. Usually the headaches go away with the squashing of the lights. Fluorescents are the worst, halogens second, and 60-watt 120-volt light bulb the bane of my existence. I look at my phone but I cannot summon a quirky 120 character quip. I need excedrin but all I have to grape flavored children's aspirin. I should have asked for the water. How many unfinished glasses of water have I left around this world? Maybe Bruce and I will squash after work. I can hear his weekly catalog of two night stands with those married transient women who drive from Santa B. I hate golf, I could have made carried a career in this resentment. Maybe rolling down the window will alleviate some of this pressure. Maybe it's barometric pressure, The Baby is here in time to drag the houses out to sea. It feels like Michelangelo is carving The David in my head and it's the chiseling I've never wanted. It's Tuesday and the drugs were horrible. They killed five of them today. We wrapped their heads in blankets from the Thrifty, and had to have the interns find clothes that would fit for the Christian caskets. Two days until Giving Thanks Day. I am wrapped in copper and stuck in amber. I am acquitted by nonsense and stipulation, sick with nausea and pushing my forehead into the steering wheel. This is all terrible. The lying I've never told myself. The people that don't even know it's lying. Her and I always seem to escape with our happiness and pleasure in tow. The odds are slim, but our clothes have never fit too tightly.
