My Cardboard Balcony

Unearthed by Belinda Roddie When I pull you into bed, your clothes still dangling from your supple frame, I do everything gently, and tastefully, as I strip you bare of every shroud of shame. When you kiss me and it stings, I feel embers in my gut, collected in ashen piles, rejuvenating me before I think about what to do with you now. What to do with us now. Now is the time for action. Now is the time to take me somewhere warmer than the vapors of our synchronous breathing. Be steady, and I'll be the one to row you back over to shore. But you'll need to lead me to the ocean first, seal the sores on my skin with salt, so that when I swim, I float. I never sink, not until you grab my arm and pull me into depths unexplored. Just do it all gently, and tastefully, please. I'd like to drown in your bucket of thrills with just a little bit of class.

Watch the anger melt from her face, and you will see a pattern. A pattern of regret, a pattern of guilt, a pattern of reconsideration. It's a bit like a tartan if you visualize it - that back and forth of dark and light, of red and black. Reminds me of my Scottish heritage, only my ancestors didn't hail from a clan, and so they wouldn't have had a tartan to begin with. Still, watch her sit back down in her chair and control her breathing. She's still frustrated, but she won't tear you limb from limb now.