Tuesday, 27 May 2014

certain things

The man with the sad dandelion eyes said take a deep breath because once I start talking we are ON this helter skelter and once I open my mouth you're going to have to crawl inside.

The girl with the fingerling lashes said come here little one, get under my stoop. I cracked my back and tested my knees on the floor; I got down. Under the stoop was dark and full of spiders.

The boy with spray glue secrets is stuck on me. I have slipped him in my pockets and carried him across a feral and febrile land. He believes in magic carpets and I don't have it in me to tell him that there's no such thing. I don't have it in me to lie.

The princess pirate is besotted with feathers. I take her to my bedroom and start plucking until all that is left is pale, dappled skin.

I am willing to share certain things: this beam of sunlight, this gold box of cookies, the girl with the fingerling lashes, the meat and the bread. We will sit around a table and you will break them and crumbs will fall onto our laps like timelapse photography of snow. Why look at this, we will say. It looks like the summer is over. We will laugh. I will share things with you. I will hold your hand at the fair and take you up the magical staircase. I will covet your lovers; I will dream of you on waltzers. When we are not around each other, I will spin, spin, spin.

The melancholic stopped answering her letters and they piled up by the door like garish white mountains, harkening for skiers who were, by now, all dead.

She did not write expecting a response. Rather, she had become addicted to the sound of her fountain pen scritching across the papery soil. She told people it gave her brain orgasms. This made people feel uncomfortable, but she was bad at reading facial expressions and kept on talking, laying out these truths like flags. She did not believe in salvation by pencils. Whenever she started talking, she got distracted by herself.

The melancholic moved more slowly than the creep of hieroglyphics. The melancholic made promises to dinosaurs. Many years ago, many centuries and millennia, he sat down with the pterodactyls and spelled out the destinies they both had coming. Of course, the melancholic lives outside of time—lives forever—because God is a trickster with pockets full of fortune cookie jokes, and what better one to play than this? Let the goofballs and the hula dancers die young. But you, your sad bitten lips and braces? You will live forever.

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