Hello Miss Martha, I’m here to interview you for your ad in the “personals” this week.
I write to set myself free.
I write to settle my forever-chaotic mind.
I write to calm myself down.
I bought a pumpkin last week.
It’s been sitting in the corner of my apartment
donning a pin-striped fedora.
Our first date was perfect.
When I ordered my first beer,
you told me you never understood drinking.
The first time I met my roommate Kindra, I gave a huge sigh of relief. I quickly noted her defining characteristics: outdated Aeropostale shirt, thighs that looked like they could have given birth to my own, and two oversized Harry Potter posters, directly over her bed.
I sat and watched the acid creep up on me.
The hands below begin to lift me up as if I’m crowd surfing at a rock concert. The screams in my ears are ringing, drowning out the sound of the greatest guitar solo to be played upon that stage.
Staggered.
Eyes like film over a dirty floor
hands like a hammer.
“She’s gone mad,” they stammer.
Red.
Now you’re on your own darling
D——F#m—————-Em——A
Now the world’s unknown, and you’re
D——F#m—————-Em——A
