My Cardboard Balcony

They Made Me Their Fool by Belinda Roddie They draped me in raiment when I was eight years old, jingled the metal worm in my ear like a carriage bell, and laughed when the pearl inside my brain screamed and died out and my speech came out slurred and stupid. They told me to dance like a fool, and to caper like a fool - to laugh like a fool, to fall like a fool, and to cry like a fool. They expected me to burn my feet on hot playground asphalt, smashing the tanbark into my cheekbone and leave the splinters sticking out, garishly, for them to sneer at. Because I was their harlequin marionette, and they wanted to tarnish my diamonds before they could sparkle. Now I'm older, and a little bit clearer, and I'm still a fool - but I'm the wise fool who clarifies errors to an erroneous king, through a smile and a slick sliding sound from the back of my tongue. Reminding him of the right ways he might be all sorts of wrong, while making him relis...

Ah, the word fabricated on April Fools Day. Fine. Two can play at this game. I've fabricated tales about men slinging mud at my fences, splattering suburban earth all over splintered wood, when I was truly bored and wanted to cause a ruckus. I've riled up controversy with my stories of "daring." Claimed I was one way. Another way. Another way. Mostly, however, I fabricated who I loved. I didn't mean to hurt anyone, but thank God the hoax stopped when I was twenty-one.