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Molly Kat

November 14th

 

There are things one holds like a flame in their chest, like a breath sucked down deeper than the lung can contain.  There are things one feels the need to cup in protection against even a whisper of a breeze.  There are things that crumble before we can remember their shape, before our tongues memorize the absence of sound.  A violin player sits in a folding chair and pulls his bow across her strings.  Her head falls in slow motion, as if the reverberating strings push it from her body.  The colors change to a warmer palate.  She thinks everything could fall to order if only there were twice as much time in a day.  He cups his hands around her and tries to breathe a blush back into her cheeks.  Her chest is hollow and black, resonant with the chords nobody wants to hear.  Her answer is out of tune and goes half a beat longer than is comfortable.  There is a silence about her like nails on a chalkboard.  There is smoke. 

 

 

December 1st

 

She rips out eyelashes, each one an excuse to make a wish.  It’s the same wish every time.  I wish I never get stuck in a life I don’t want.  Her mother was a victim of her father’s forked tongue.  How many times Lucy remembers her mother’s face planted on the floor, tears sliding down her nose as she shuffled into the bedroom and locked the door, leaving him to punish his children.  Scare tactics.  Clipboards and backhands and the closet doors crashing off the tracks.  The one fat arm that dangled her brother over the balcony by his foot.  At the root of Lucy is a tangled vine of decay.  Viciously black, sour, slimy.  She maintains life in an accidental way.  There is nothing at the center compelling her onward, or upward, or in any direction that can be mapped onto the grid.  She can smell the stale tequila on her father’s ruddy mouth, half an inch from her face, his hand dislocating her jaw.  She is a boa, an anaconda, wishes for the power to unhinge in a productive way.  To loosen her jaw, swallow the idea of home, join the chorus of corpses that whistle and moan over the decaying buildings on her block.  He mistook panic attacks for temper tantrums, threw her into the corner of the bathtub and turned on the icy could spigot.  He stared at her with black eyes until he couldn’t bear to hear her chocking and sobbing and suffocating.  The panic wasn’t in her, it was in the bathtub.  In her mother’s furrowed eyebrows, her father’s barking voice.  He’d pull her out, wrap her in a towel and hug her.  Tell her, I would die for you Lucy, I would die for you.

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