My Cardboard Balcony

Coma by Belinda Roddie It's cool when you lose your sense of self over a hot teaspoon of instant temper, and then come to and stare in horror as the poor scared children scurry away from your fallen state of authority. Kind of blows, the echo and the aftermath. You suck a straw so it catches on your sore thumb. You cry about it to a friend of the family of a friend because you just don't feel like failing, but it happens, and it will keep happening, even when you get used to the abrasions all over your knees. When you taste it, you know it's bitter, and when you hear it, you know it's hollow, so get over your latest coma, trek harder, live longer, drink faster to keep the room spinning, and always, always, always, forget to forgive yourself.

Don't think, just act. Don't speak, just listen. Don't breathe, just plead. All these things wrapped up in a sticky, sticky cinnamon roll you can't swallow. The sugary spikes your palate and chills your spine, and you shudder, shudder from the intake. Don't forget - your vocabulary's too much. Tone it down. Simmer. Stir. Serve. Cold.