My Cardboard Balcony

Don't Go Downstairs by Belinda Roddie There are stories from last year that I keep locked in a chest, tucked away in the basement where I keep all the bones of my temper tantrums, dusted over with time and shrouded in a veil that's thin enough to suspend my past dreams in mid-air. I'd share some of those sagas with you, but to do so would be equivalent to subjecting my body to the smiling teeth of a thousand blades, and I'd rather not endure an emotional pain that could rival the visceral agony of a torture chamber. My compulsions have worsened over the past few months, and should I let you downstairs, don't be surprised if you find the door locked behind you, the key slipped into the same drawer over and over and over again. Let me remain privately psychotic; let me maintain the persona of a calm individual, a mentor who can teach what they themselves never learned, a practitioner of a religion in which God never wanted us included in the na

I loved her, but only at a distance. I sent letters, but never signed with my name. I never tried to be creepy with what I wrote - I merely sent good wishes, seasons greetings, the occasional update on how the town was doing now that she was gone. I knew she didn't want to hear from me, but perhaps, if I were merely a disembodied voice - a messenger - then she would accept my words. Maybe even treasure them.