My Cardboard Balcony

My Person by Belinda Roddie This is my person: She takes good care of me. She provides the daily emotional support that I desperately need. She sometimes cooks me dinner; in return, I brew her tea. I love my person very much, and she thinks I'm lovely.

I could feel her fingernails on my back. Racing against each ridge, attempting to probe my spine as if she were trying to extract something from my bones. The sensation set my teeth on the brink, made the stuff in my veins turn into a personal arctic ocean. I felt shriveled up and petrified like an old tree. But the worst was the noise they made. Like my body was, indeed, an outdated, makeshift chalkboard.