Friday, February 11, 2011

Oh, Bea.

I found a cushion to curl up on.

The loveseat winced under

my weight. I turned its red velvet

burnt orange. There was a small fire.

A quivering blue core asked me if

I could name a few moons just to

pass the time. Before I could begin,

I heard Bea Arthur whisper from the

television in the other room,

I could vomit just looking at you.

Quiet. I wait patiently for the ice

that the weatherman blushes over.


and gussied up,

I strapped a rocket

to the small of my back

and pressed my face

against the cool wallpaper

of the bedroom.

I lit the wick

and sent today hurtling,

skirts singed at the hems.

Wednesday is submerged

in the glass of water

on my nightstand.

in mid-sleep, I hide things

between mattress and


I toss these layers off.

while dreaming myself small,

the alarm nags me awake.

I find a Ball jar of balloons

next to my clock

with a note that says: