If my head doesn’t raise and my eyes
remain blurred, and if the cherry syrup
still clings to my chin, or the saliva
digests smoothly, maybe you should
reach for me with your long slender fingers,
and maybe you should bat your long lashes
while you exhale down my neck and watch
me shiver like a newborn lamb whose mother
didn’t want her and face those less fortunate.
My limbs re-animate and breath fills my lungs,
but my eyes are still blurred and you’re just
standing there, staring, wishing I’d just die, in your
denim overalls with gold finished latching and
your stupid purple kicks that I always pretended
to like, feeling your phone buzzing in your cross
middle pocket – txts from a girl you like better.
Your fists in my sockets, kaleidoscope star vision
like I’m some sort of cartoon villain invading your life,
parasite, on my side, trembling, limp head, sweet lips
and a bit of labored breathing that mimics the rise and fall
of your chest – we have always been the same.
Anabelle is a yapper, a gamer, and a college radio DJ. She loves Adrianne Lenker, pom-cran juice, and outdoor swimming pools. She aspires to write stories, poems and other multi-media narratives that detail the mundane, expose privilege, and encourage empathy.