My Cardboard Balcony

For God's Sake by Belinda Roddie Don't rub hot oil on my head and act surprised when there are blisters beneath my hair. We used to play nicely on the swing set of a lost Babylon playground, the stones piled in poor men's monuments, and epitaphs' words tied together with driftwood. Now you find a snide enjoyment in the bruises festering on my forearms - the rich man partaking in the struggle of the artist, the theist seeking solace in the weeping of a surviving skeptic. You can discover new ways to pinch me to remind me that I'm not dreaming, and you can easily send snakes on me praying that I'll eagerly suck the venom from their fangs through a straw. But for God's sake, don't play the role of messenger when the scrolls you carry are stamped with sharp brimstone. The devil is in the fine print - you just didn't read it thoroughly enough before you signed it.

I was more than grateful for the company as I sat in the waiting room, impatiently awaiting the end of the operation. Wesley had brought a bag of cheese puffs for me to snack on, while Tara tried getting me interested in the ridiculous celebrity magazines that littered the adjacent coffee tables. "She'll be fine," she assured me just as the doctor walked toward me. "People get these surgeries all the time."