Prose
Serving a Burnt dish
At the grocery store, there they are again. The people who come with a hot dish to serve. Shoot their gun at me. A poor little house wife they underestimate. My apron is bulletproof and the bullet bounces right off. I pull the lipstick out of the pocket of the apron. it is actually a one shot pistol. A smaller bullet than theirs that hits them. they cry to everyone about it, leaving out the part where they tried to shoot me with a bigger bullet. They could barely handle the serving of my warm dish after they tried to throw a burnt one at me.
By Seashell Harpspring about 10 hours ago in Poets
How will it end?
We’re halfway through a show I begged you to watch and I’m beginning to think it’s not up to me anymore. Not the tv rotation but maybe everything else. It’s all been laid out and kneaded and covered with saran wrap and you’re not supposed to wake it up too early for risk of eczema or whatever the bread equivalent is and does it even matter when all I could ever want is right in front of me? Days are passing like overloaded shipping containers and not one of them has my name on it. There’s no room for me anyway. My fingers aren’t strong enough to hang on since the incident. But where do I want to go? I’m right where I want to be and I’m not here at all. The frames on the walls are just out of place and my arms feel weaker than they did last week and I just don’t know if this is my decision to make or if it’s already been spelled out and erased and rewritten a thousand times. We’re inching closer to an ending with every sun that rises and sets. I don’t know where it goes when it’s not shining in my eyes. I don’t know what to do with the me that’s sitting right here. Are you watching? How do you think it ends?
By Olivia Dodge3 days ago in Poets
