My Cardboard Balcony

We Are Underwater by Belinda Roddie In the aquarium, I see the schools of silver spiral in a tornado above my head. The glass is the only thing that keeps me from enrolling in their little marine academy and swimming with them. You grab me by the wrists and pull me back so you can look over my shoulder. Outside, it is very hot, but inside, it is dark and cool, and on all sides of us are glittering jellyfish with tentacles made of spider webs but barbs sharper than thorns. Outside, I am very hot. Inside, you are cold, and pressed against my hip, breathing in the recycled air of the enclosed space where, when I look around, I see the flashes and whirlwinds of another world.

Are you trying to threaten me? Because you look so pathetic doing it. You, with your torn denim vest and your too tight jeans and your over the top mohawk. And all the pins naming bands you've never listened to! Tell me, were you trying to become a walking, squawking caricature of some bad boy I'd never want to fuck? Because you're nailing it. Like, hardcore, bro.