My Cardboard Balcony

My Exit by Belinda Roddie It's been fun, y'all. But I'm done with this blog.

Percussive Denouement by Belinda Roddie Almost exactly ten years ago, I wrote about stream-of-consciousness nostalgia at only twenty-two years. White Russians were still my go to at bars like Paul's in Orange. Shervin and I don't speak much these days. I stirred in a healthy seasoning of pseudo-enlightenment about poetry as if I, a gay enby with the complexion of mayonnaise, could hold words in my hands as comfortably as my cats before they squirmed for escape. The illusions I thought I wove were merely fraying threads on a sweater (they still are. But at least the fabric is still mostly intact). I do not create illusions. I am fooled by them. My stories are influenced by weird dreams. And I have gained more weight in ten years. And I have seen more heartbreaks in ten years. And I know panic attacks like old friends at bars where I can barely stomach dairy, unlike ten years ago. The decade has been shaky, achy, riddled with holes. Termites and bullets didn't cause my wounds

Relaxant by Belinda Roddie In this moment, I seek more time and less energy.

Deaf To Howling by Belinda Roddie They said the dogs barked all night. I heard silence.

Fin by Belinda Roddie All things must, eventually, come to an end. Whether by curtain fall, or waterfall. By knifepoint or viewpoint. By tidal wave or brain wave. All things must come to an end.

Not The Bees by Belinda Roddie Sophie's hands shook. They were stained with blood and honeycomb.