My Cardboard Balcony

Honey Drop Hip Hop by Belinda Roddie Drag me to the bee hive, drizzle my tongue up in sweet hornet saliva, wiggling your stinger by my eye. Oh, the drone of the bass is enough to buzz me into a frenzy, bite a lesion into a hand stirring up grounds in a coffee pot. The tsk-tsk, brisk sweeping of a filter on the spring lights, the rudimentary elements of a whiskey served dry with just a little bit of glaze, babe, to soothe a scabbed goodbye, while I apply honey to my pores and scrub the insect tears off my skin.

When the casting call began, a girl walked in who looked a little worse for wear. I was, in fact, shocked by her appearance, for lack of a better word. There was a streak of concern painted across everyone's face as she exposed the bruises, blemishes, and cuts creating a mosaic along her own cheekbones, jawline, and nose bridge. We had to ask. "What happened?" She rolled up her sleeve, and we saw the word in red on her arm. Inflicted by a knife, the word "Dyke." "I wasn't going to let a hate crime stop me from auditioning."