My Cardboard Balcony

A Response To Having Both My Words And Intentions Completely And Utterly Warped by Belinda Roddie I'm not sure why, when our conversation's over, every word that I've crafted so carefully like hot metal gets returned to me all scrunched up like aluminum foil, unrecognizable. I try to uncurl the syllables, but they're beyond mending, and I can't remold them with my teeth because chewing on aluminum foil is a bad idea. I don't get it. You have this weird image of me. Distorted like a painting from a horny Picasso, his eyes glazed over at the thought of sticking his callused, oil-stained fingers where they don't belong. The sentences I speak are skewed as soon as they are propped up on stools. They're slanted, struggling to remember what they actually mean. I have to admit, if you've branded me as the Devil, then you've given my sloppy cunning way more credit than it actually deserves.

3:35 PM. I board the metro at Larson Station. Sit myself between two dilapidated benches because then that way, no one can turn me into a people sandwich. I find my last working earbuds and pop them in, and soon, it’s symphonic metal for the next seven stops. I’m on this train for a long time. Being a commuter blows.