My Cardboard Balcony

My Mental Persuasion by Belinda Roddie Feel the crunch when I'm in combat, the gnash of teeth on the back of my neck. I'm sweating stripes, and I'm painted red, like the cider and whiskey going straight to my head. My hands are stripped bare from the stains of your grip, your lipstick, your pains, your patience. I am hot from the cold. My cheeks are on fire. I am way too tired to stop the rampage now. Halfway to the bus stop, I see them waiting. They're drinking black rum straight from the glass. I've passed out before from the stuff, but I won't run this time. There's the chomping again, the jaws clamping down hard, nagging me, "Well, go on, then. Do it." My brain has its own mouth to coax me with. I zoom in on the man who grabbed you from behind, and before he can blink, he's drunkenly reeling from my very first swing.

I felt like a cat, so I arched my back, and I yawned and it turned into a yowl. I was eager for some milk, though, come to think of it, milk would be a lot better with cookies. So I jogged out to my car, drove to the grocery store, and bought a whole pack of peanut butter oreos to dunk into a hefty, majestic glass of dairy goodness. As I was chewing, my real cat, Nibbles, pranced up to me and arched his own back. I meowed at him. He meowed back.