I will devour you.
Just like my whiskey. I will infect you, just tryin' to be me. I'll cry to my God and wish for no rivers for her to drive in. Seat belt buckled like good moms should I'll wish I could just devour you.
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Long lay the wait.
Frantic layers stripped, years in the making. She took the bait. Soul-starving, carving out her niche. He, with pretty boy bed dreams iconoclastic puritan screams juxtaposed in a soul twisted, broken. Long lay the wait. Ghosted. Unspoken. She with hopeful trust and a lust for connection wanted to hold the line. In good time. Blocked. Barricaded. No detour in sight. Ghost in the night. Baby cries, mental anguish. Other fish. What would Jesus do? The chill had set in early; before the checks came, before the trees were chopped, drug inside and bedecked with paper maché memories. Food banks couldn't keep up. Struggle was growing as fast as demand.
Neighbors were dropping like flies amongst the heavy coughs, wheezing, and complaining lies about how the cloth coverings were killing us all. It wasn't Aunt Minnie's nimble-fingered stitchings that were to blame. Some thought it was in the rain that trickled down from DC, but all wise knew nothing ever trickled down from there. Dry spigots don't do such things. Hoarders don't share, do they? Naw, man. The only thing trickling from absentia was pain. Anyway, like I said, the cold set in. Christmas wasn't the same after the grid flipped, and we all took to burning the furniture. Evergreens don't flame as well as box springs and end tables...unless it's April, and they've been dead since Autumn. Just like the neighbors. But grandma's rocking chair? That kept us warm and fed...in the dead of winter. Hey you, the torn one. The shredded one, glowing in your tattered form. Yes, you. The broken and bruised. I see you.
I want you to take your sad, bereaved heart, throbbing cadence with your soul, and I want you to grow. Grow it into an angry flame, burning, yearning and birth yourself anew. I want you to rise from these unbalanced ashes like the badass, bitchin' she-devil, motherfuckin' Phoenix you are and take this life by its horns as though you own every damn corner of this town, state, and province of vicinity. Rise for me. She just needed to do the dishes. And the laundry. And let the dogs out. And make sure everyone eats all of the meals. The breakfast. What's for breakfast? Eggs? Again? UGH! She hopes it's ok. Is it ok? She's sorry it's eggs again. She looks at the dishes. Now there's more dishes. The kids should wash the dishes, but the kids have school work, and YouTube, and games, and she's ok with that because the kids have been as resilient as possible in this Covid mess alternate world. Ok. What was she doing? Yes. The dishes. No. Letting dogs out. No. The breakfast. Eggs again. Yes, eggs again.
She just needed to do the dishes. There they were; stacked like a wobbly, colorful, miniature, overcrowded Stonehenge of funk. She'll get there. But first she flicks the laptop open, and let's the dogs out, and checks all the emails, and permissions, and parameters, and tries to find some coffee. She finds the coffee and faces the dishes. She bumps into laundry, and sees the clock. Almost lunch time. What's for lunch? Mac and cheese? Again?? UGH! She hopes it's ok. Is it ok? She's sorry it's mac and cheese again. Now there's more dishes. The kids should wash the dishes, but the kids are distracted in books and that was ok because they've given so much up in this Covid mess she wasn't about to take their mental vacation away. What was she going to say? She glances out the window and strays to the riverbank, the woods, and the beach. She opens more emails and spreadsheets. More scrolling and flipping screens. More coffee. She finds more coffee and faces the dishes. She bumps into laundry, and sees the clock. Almost dinner time. What's for dinner? What's for dinner? Wait. She just needed to do the dishes. Plucking strings while the moon rings
low colors by my bedside. A pillar of strength skin side out while crumbled interior mess shouts dismembered tones unequal to her appearance. Chords drown out the clearance. Just keep plucking. Just keep strumming. A day will come to acclivity and her naivety will expire simultaneous to her desire of finding herself reflected in another face. Untidiness of life will dissipate like a friendless ghost exhaling. I just keep wailing lonesome strings while the moon rings muffled colors by my bedside. The clock ticked and tocked so loudly.
It always did when the long, annual wait ensued. His nimble fingers brushed the side of her silent face as he sighed. It wasn't time yet. But, soon. Soon he would don his favorite mask as neighbor kids trotted up the sidewalk. There was sure to be the usuals; a ghost, several witches, a clown, a devil, a Trump. None would surpass his one, true love, though, and he knew it. He clutched a mug and chugged down the last warm remnants as he stared at her face, lying on the table. They would be together, once again. They would be one, like before. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. He reached for his mask. As he pulled the fragile skin over his head, he noted how dry she had become, especially around the stitching. She wasn't the young, fresh face from yesteryear anymore. "I told you to stay hydrated." He muttered as the doorbell rang. "Now you'll get the lotion, and like it!" I saw you in the clouds today.
Universal Exchange "Stop whittling away at me!"
"But if we just take a little out of here..." "Stop!" "...and a little from over there..." "I said STOP!" "...and a pinch from here..." "I can't take this anymore! You're hurting me!" "...and then put this there..." "Hey!" "...and this can go right over here... "What?" "...and this should go up over here..." "Wait, what are you doing?" "There. Oh, what am I doing? Well, can't you feel what I'm doing? I'd think you could feel that." "I CAN feel it! I've been screaming at you to stop!" "Why would you want me to stop?" "Because it hurts!" "Ah, yes, growing can hurt." "GROWING? I'm grown! Why are you doing this to me?" "Oh, dear, I'm just building you up." She rises up a little dark.
Opaque and Scratchy. But inside, she is mush. Blessed with a voice no silence could shush. And I love her.
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AuthorMolly Roland is a writer by nature, and she enjoys stepping over the invisible lines society loves to draw. Categories |