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I have many hats,
and most fit just fine. I have hats for dancing, hats for prancing, hats for drinking wine. I have hats for cleaning, hats for singing hats for running to the store. I have hats for refereeing hats for wife-ing and hats that keep the score. Sometimes I can wear twenty-two hats in a single day. I have hats for wrestling, and hats to wear for play. But my most favorite hat, of all the hats I have, is the biggest and loudest hat that I own. I place it on my noodle, with a smile on my face and traipse around while it shouts “Fuck You!” all over the God damn place.
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The last word lies with me.
In my casket of phonetics, it drips from my worm-encrusted tongue. Forty stone of dirt muffles the sound so that no one will hear my dead mouth holler it out, but that's alright by me. The last word is mine. I just wanted to hold you,
hold all of your pieces that had been nicked off over the years of hurt. But, you wouldn't let me. Now, my cold arms sway in the breeze as I watch the leaves carry the warmth away. We were just this close. During the worst of days,
she found her locale to be lower than the sole of his dusty boot. During those days, she felt as splintery as the sun-dried deck planks that scraped the dog shit from the sole of his dusty boot. There were increasingly more of the dry, splintered-wood, dust-ladden days. Her topographical map began to holler until she stifled it with a fully packed, prim parcel, and watched as it twinkled in the new day sun. |
AuthorMolly Roland is a writer by nature, and she enjoys stepping over the invisible lines society loves to draw. Archives
April 2018
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