My Cardboard Balcony

Silenced by Belinda Roddie Her lips leave an echo in my vocal chambers, a song drawn from my throat by a red, tantalizing thread. When will she cease her seamless seduction? She is warm and inviting, a handful of hearth to keep the winter out of my hair. She makes mince meat out of my dreams, drills for oil in the pits of my desires. This is the end of all logic. There is only the kiss and embrace of a mischievous nymph, pulling the words from my mouth, chewing them, and swallowing them, with no chaser stronger than the weight of her tongue, her teeth, her world.

"Very few people," Professor Anway told me, "earn my sympathy. And before you ask, yes, sympathy is a thing to be earned. No crocodile tears sway me in any plight you have. You must suffer a certain kind of struggle to garner my attention." He poured himself another glass of water, ignoring the drumming my fingers made on my chair. "That's all well and good," I replied, "but it doesn't change the fact that my father's death has hindered me quite a bit in my work, regardless of whether or not I have 'earned' your attention."