My Cardboard Balcony

The Gods Are Irritated by Belinda Roddie truth be told, the air is thick with spirits foaming at the mouth, the suds whiter than the teeth of the ocean, the salt mixing with the savory breeze, turning it tender as a sacrificial lamb shank. you can lick the plate clean when the discourse is done.

No, never. I never ever will. It never will happen. No, not ever. Never. You can hold my hand, but your skin will sting. It will never ever happen. Not ever. Never. You can try to kiss me, but your lips will feel like cold wax against cold wax. I am not interested in the frigidity of your grip. Never. I never will be. Not ever. I have love of my own. And you will never ever understand it. Not ever. Which is a damn shame.