My Cardboard Balcony

One More Birthday by Belinda Roddie She holds her head up as high as she possibly can, kisses the neck of her girlfriend and laughs at bad jokes, all while remembering the blue necktie with the saxophone on it that she wanted to wear for the concert that night. But her father hid it away where she couldn't find it, and her mother scolded her for wearing a shirt that, in her parents' view, made her far too masculine for the mold they had crafted for her to fit in at all times. So for now, she waits for adulthood to officially stamp her forehead so that nothing can touch her. She is already patient in a room with gray walls, where her teacher smiles and talks warmly about their wife without the fear of consequences hanging over their head like the blunted blade of a guillotine.

The winter of our discontent was never quite made glorious summer. We made our camps and lit small fires to ward away the evil spirits. At night, we all sang songs that were meant to raise the morale of our soldiers, but in the morning, the armor remained rusty, and the swords blunt, and our confidence shredded like ice in a quick yet violent storm. I stayed behind when the first battle started. And I stayed behind when the second ended badly as well.