You pummel me
with bloody fists, wring me dry, and leave me hanging
limp and
lifeless
on a clothesline
in the baking sun,
all the while
covering my battered body in soft kisses
and whispering
sweet words in my ear.
I love you in a
way that pains me
You tower like a
podium to me
though you are
short
You smell of
frantic bodies and hot skin and friction
though you are
forever kept from me by that cold, dull, metal circle
You taste like
life to me
though you are
dying.
You’ve gone and
made me sad again.
It’s okay.
I’ve gotten
pretty good at rolling up my sadness into a ball and shoving it in my closet
behind a pile of
socks that have lost their mates
and clothes that
haven’t fit me in years but hold too many memories for me to give away.
I shuffle my
emotions in a deck
and deal them
out accordingly:
The happy of
spades to my mother
who worries
about me,
the ambitious of
clubs to my father
who is hard to
please,
the carefree of
diamonds to my friends
who are tired of
hearing about my problems,
and the queen of
hearts is saved for you
who masquerades
manic, violent torture behind a veil of love.
I keep one card
in my hand –
the joker, of
course –
to distract me
from your silent abuse
with slapstick
jokes and simple humor.
People tell me
I’m funny
and they’re
right.
Nothing makes
people laugh like learning my happiness is built on a house of cards
that trembles
when the wind blows in a certain direction
and is bound to
come crashing down one day
in a terrific
flurry of shiny numbers and stoic faces.
Madelyn Bowman is an aspiring writer and artist. She spent much of her childhood moving around the country, and learned to find solace in her writing. Maddy now lives in Massachusetts and works as a writer for a local newspaper.
Madelyn Bowman is an aspiring writer and artist. She spent much of her childhood moving around the country, and learned to find solace in her writing. Maddy now lives in Massachusetts and works as a writer for a local newspaper.
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