My Cardboard Balcony

The Royal Hotel by Belinda Roddie Down in the basement of the Royal Hotel, there's a man who will harvest the organs of nobles. He'll sew up their wounds with a needle made of bone, and he'll kiss them on the forehead as their lips turn to silver. Down in the basement of the Royal Hotel, the man's wife cries so much that her tears fill the teapots kept in cupboards so dusty that the spiders stay away, and the whole space smells like cheap disinfectant. Up in the lobby of the Royal Hotel, two lovers roll their suitcases full of idols and wine. They will pray to their gods on the thirteenth floor, once sunrise has revealed all of Mother Earth's scars. And on the top story of the Royal Hotel, a prince from a remote nation feels pain in his side. As he wakes from bad dreams, he remembers his appointment, before realizing that he's also missing his spleen.

You undo the clasp, and the chain around my neck disintegrates into separate coils and links, dropping to the linoleum floor in twists and spirals, melted metal and stale silver. Now my skin is fully exposed, and your fingers leave red streaks across my chest as you attempt to extract something from me - what is that something? Love? Redemption? I do not appreciate your clawing, as if you are a wild animal. So I pull myself away.