Hello Miss Martha, I’m here to interview you for your ad in the “personals” this week.
“Your generation is what’s wrong with the world today.”
Well hello to you too sir.
I write to set myself free.
I write to settle my forever-chaotic mind.
I write to calm myself down.
“You are a shark”
Or so I have been told by
These faceless, nameless voices
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 I quickly noted her defining characteristics: outdated Aeropostale shirt, thighs that looked like they could have given birth to my own, and two oversized Harry Potter posters, directly over her bed.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.
Eyes like film over a dirty floor
hands like a hammer.
“She’s gone mad,” they stammer.