Estate Sale
Their music haunts my bones, makes them tremble and quiver like the Jell-o molds she brings into the back yard in July. I know they’re out there, on the edges of my foundations with their sparklers and illegal bottle rockets. It’s charming. As long as they keep their flames to themselves.
The young ones are my favorite. Like I said before- their music touches me. When they’re done throwing things into my sides and pricking holes in my skin with their fists their young ones have their music. Sometimes they stub out cigarettes on my eyelids and I promise not to tell their secrets. It doesn’t hurt, not like they hurt. They stay close to my ribs, hiding from the backs of my eyes and the old ones. I want to keep them this close forever, the young ones, tucked away inside where no one can’t hurt them. Except they can and do get hurt inside of me. I don’t mean for them to but I can’t lock them in when the doors have only handles.
When the young ones leave and the old ones go to their corners they leave me brittle. I’ve got a disease in my bones from too many years of neglect and they’ve grown soft in some places. The old ones leave and strange young ones give me a black eye, then two. They pick at my soft places until sawdust bleeds out and even more strangers come to fill me back up. They take sharp blows to stitch on new skin, new scars and it hurts.
It doesn’t seem like it’s worth it. I’ve been here alone for a while, watching the sun move around me, neighborhood dogs using my overgrown outsides for toilets. I prefer the strangers and the big ones and the little ones to the dogs.
Something new happened today. A stranger with sharp feet went click-clacking through my belly, down to my toes and up through my skull. She even picked at my brain like raven and a writing desk. Her hand was hopeful against my walls.
The young ones are my favorite. Like I said before- their music touches me. When they’re done throwing things into my sides and pricking holes in my skin with their fists their young ones have their music. Sometimes they stub out cigarettes on my eyelids and I promise not to tell their secrets. It doesn’t hurt, not like they hurt. They stay close to my ribs, hiding from the backs of my eyes and the old ones. I want to keep them this close forever, the young ones, tucked away inside where no one can’t hurt them. Except they can and do get hurt inside of me. I don’t mean for them to but I can’t lock them in when the doors have only handles.
When the young ones leave and the old ones go to their corners they leave me brittle. I’ve got a disease in my bones from too many years of neglect and they’ve grown soft in some places. The old ones leave and strange young ones give me a black eye, then two. They pick at my soft places until sawdust bleeds out and even more strangers come to fill me back up. They take sharp blows to stitch on new skin, new scars and it hurts.
It doesn’t seem like it’s worth it. I’ve been here alone for a while, watching the sun move around me, neighborhood dogs using my overgrown outsides for toilets. I prefer the strangers and the big ones and the little ones to the dogs.
Something new happened today. A stranger with sharp feet went click-clacking through my belly, down to my toes and up through my skull. She even picked at my brain like raven and a writing desk. Her hand was hopeful against my walls.