My Cardboard Balcony

It's been kind of a crazy week for me. Lots of kids to tutor, new training sessions for GirlSMART, new students to tend to (one of which doesn't know English so I have to teach him entirely in Spanish. This'll be interesting). New projects, new formulas, new strategies. It's a new year, and everything's new. Especially when it comes to planning for my future. Tonight, at my aunt's house in Davis, I signed up for both the CBEST and the CSET tests for teaching. Which is good. Both tests cost a pretty penny to take, so I better not blow it, but it's good that I signed up. It's only the first step in the direction toward officially teaching. After that, it's looking at credentials and potential graduate schools. ...Yeah, that's the part that's freaking me out a bit. There are a few fundamental things about my life that I want to hold on to or I want to push toward. But from what I've been told, a credential program (obviously) takes a l...

Rude Motor by Belinda Roddie Christine, caress these weary fingers stained with oil Callused from toiling over your vintage framework I want to see your hubcaps spinning, chrome and silver Your tires tearing up fresh asphalt as my vision turns Into one big, crimson blur behind your heavy shield It’s just you and me, and your rude motor Christine, let me breathe in your sweet perfume It constricts me and gently submits me to the confines of your wheel I love to see your bright eyes glowing, glaring At the passerby who stop to stare at the awkward pair, The silhouette against your amber gaze It’s just you and me, and your rude motor Christine, couldn’t you have been a pretty girl instead? A golden-eyed girl, with red hair and red lips So you could hold me without anybody looking? You leave scars when you bite down on me And when you kiss me, you kiss too hard And when you groan, you rattle my teeth and shake my bones But come evening, I’ll b...

Hear that? That's the sound of a hollow drum in my chest. That's the sound of the tiny little rat skeletons playing marimba on my ribcage. The rat skeletons symbolize something significant. I don't know what. Either way, the things chew at my lungs, tying my arteries into red ribboned knots as I attempt to sleep. I am not happy with my breathing. I am not well. I cannot wait for yestermorrow.