My Cardboard Balcony

Four Hundred Times by Belinda Roddie Four hundred times I've made mistakes, and yet you seem to think the very best of me. You kiss my tears away and press your chest against my own, dispelling tragedy that I have concocted in my poor head. How many are out to get me? Zero, you remind me, and no, I won't be dead before thirty. You do not make a show of your affection, but you make it clear how much I mean to you, and I feel so ashamed for dragging you through sheer guilt trip after guilt trip. Still, though, you try to break the spell I've cast upon myself, my demons, you repeat, are someone else.

"Can I help you with anything?" "No," replied the old man wearing a top hat. "I'm just looking." He proceeded to shuffle his way into the culinary section, and for the next twenty minutes, he proceeded to stand there, admiring every toaster he came across. He seemed especially fond of the chrome toasters - glistening royal blue and bright red - but certainly didn't touch them.