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“I just want to feel
pretty,” she says through her tears.
She already is.
You ask, I answer.
Opinions fly. No right, wrong.
It’s all subjective.
Trying to make work
indulgent, a nine-to-five
wage slave’s fantasy.
Lulled by summer’s false
start, forty degrees reminds
us that April lies.
Rubik’s cube of words
adjectives nouns verbs form a
perfect turn of phrase.
Like eyes heavy with
grief, grey clouds spill a steady
patter of sorrow.
Pulling apart a
life together, the future
frays like a cut edge.
It happens over
coffee, one stunned, the other
already elsewhere.
She woke up seeing
him in a different light
flame sputtering out.
“There’s always rain at
the most appropriate times
in my life,” he wrote.
Tightly furled like clenched
fists, tentative red-tipped buds
sway on bare branches.
based on a poem written by M.
They say I need a
man. Chocolate. But an eye
lash curler’s enough.
original source:
I don’t need chocolate to eat or a man in my life
I just think I do
because of the media
All I really need is my eyelash curler.
Complex moments break
down into vignettes when brief
words define their state.
“You suck!” becomes a
delightful metaphor for
taking it all in.
Hives. Itching. As if
her body can’t coexist
with her sense of self.
“I’m telling you but
don’t worry, I’m fine,” she says.
I listen, but do.
Post-audition, she
was mobbed with requests, star-to-
be in student films.
She turned to cake, felt
herself melting, the devil
eating his way out.
Malted milk eggs, Peeps,
solid bunnies (eaten ears
first) hide in fake grass.
What do bunnies and
chocolate have to do with
a resurrection?
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