My Cardboard Balcony

Beautiful, Dangerous by Belinda Roddie Your nails - your beautiful, dangerous fingernails - they leave red trails across my naked back, exposed as the sheets slip like ghosts from my shoulders. They are swirling in miniature galaxies, each cuticle encircling individual stars and worlds that can never communicate with us. It's interesting to feel your painted cosmos scratch, rather than burn, my skin. I do not leave this warm bed with new tattoos. Last month, you mocked Midas by dipping your fingers into gold. Your touch is better than his, though - it certainly creates a spark across my body, the hairs stimulated like flaxen lightning rods in pale soil. And before that, I found the forest tantalizing, or at least the one that crept along the borders of your hands. Again, who knows what creatures linger in mushroom circles or bury their beards in willow trees; all I see from here is the green canopy, and the sunlight makes it glow with dust and sweet old-fas

There I was at the bus stop with my headphones on, when a man with three eyes ran screaming to me. He said he could see the hearts of all humanity, and they were burning darker and darker by the minute. He told me my heart was one of the last pure ones left, but in all honesty, that's all I heard, because then my favorite song started rumbling in my ears, and I never pause that song unless it's a personal emergency. So the man with three eyes howled helplessly as I rocked to the groove of my awesome tune.