My Cardboard Balcony

Quilted Heart by Belinda Roddie Sometimes I wonder if the concave eye in my chest is covered by a sheer, or perhaps, in the end, something must thicker: A handstitched, painstaking design - one representing an ancient past, or perhaps an awkward, yet steady, future. I have a quilted heart: The kind that needs protecting. The kind who tucks Washingtons into plastic jars for public opinion. Who orders pizza for a dear friend thousands of miles away. The kind that appears strong, but fabric is only fabric. It tears easily. The holes are noticeable, flaws and indiscrepancies. You can swaddle what's beneath a ribcage, but the cradle is never safe from impending wind. It rocks and it sways and it falls according to the song.

The entire apartment was infested with them. Creeping, crawling, making strange noises. Pretending that they could fly without wings. Leaving everything rotten, every food product ruined, every can emptied. They were attracted to sugar, to alcohol, to salt, to everything. I didn't know what to do. So I called an exterminator. "Ah, the hipsters," she chuckled as she surveyed the problem. "I'll play mainstream pop and have 'em out in no time."