Silhouettes from the (bent) memory wall:
1. Dreamscape details:
The desire is mostly leather stitched through with red, crooked and untied. Friends are mostly leaving or dying, haircuts are forced. There is a file clerk phase, and then there is a bathtub. There is a beer and there is a razor blade and there is one cheek full of glitter and one bitten clean through. The beer is dropped once the hand grows limp, a piece of glitter shifting through fine hair. Everything smells like metal. Everyone is rusting.
2.Email draft photo:
We talked about it into the night, slipped beneath loft bed sheets, every frog croaking in perfect time. You’d grab our son by his grubby hand, I’d handle all the hair braiding, learning not to pull. I didn’t see it then, but the picture is in my hands and I am giggling at seventeen, wanting to be your housewife. I see it now: she calls the grass back and forth with a wink and a green, flannel shirt. I wear black chiffon to my knees and write about blood dripping itself into fat, curling roses. She is my daffodil-crown man of the hour and I am her black orchid bride. This is seventh grade teen dream house, gutted and put back together. No glue. Fingers crossed.
3. Summer 2014, scratched out and rewritten:
The trees smell like butterscotch when you scratch them, and the spikes in her jacket send sugar through the air as she leans against it. I have a feeling she could do the same to me. Jeans, tight. Shirt swept to the side, pale hip winking in the mountain air. She sees me and smirks, pulls me in and then walks away. There are things meant to swirl you upside down and things that just make you queasy. This is neither. We sit around the fire pit that night, and I ask for truth because the dare was cast already– card slapped down in broad daylight. What old tricks?