My Cardboard Balcony

...Stays Here by Belinda Roddie The dress that doesn't belong to you now has an accessory it didn't come with: Impermanent, easy to clean, but at this moment, it shines with a crimson sheen around the collar, which doesn't exactly complement the color of the skirt or bodice. That's some heavy lipstick, my friend. Did you buy that by the box, and now you're literally just running your mouth across some poor dame's neck? Wait until Daddy finds out: wait until the snarling mouth of his Glock G19 gets a chance to speak up about it, too. And Mama will fulfill the stereotype and cry and cry and cry until she's shriveled up like a corn husk in the summer blaze. The dress that doesn't belong to you sure looks good on my sister, doesn't it? The way the sleeves accentuate the shoulders, punctuated by the muscle gained by weight training in college. The bristle of the hem against ankles that like to bend the wrong way when she walks to

Here they come, circling 'round the ranch like belted vultures. Their wide-brimmed hats accentuate their pointed, dripping beaks. Their wattles shake and shimmy with each cackle erupting from their lips. They have revolvers on their hips, and they share the same whiskey in a stain glass bottle.