My Cardboard Balcony

A Butcher Kissed Me by Belinda Roddie A butcher kissed me behind his counter, his apron still sticky with salty blood spilled from a freshly sliced up loin of pork. The room was touched with meaty aromas as his whiskery lips clung onto mine. I liked the way he placed his massive hands against my fragile back, careful not to splinter me as I tried to keep back tears. I wanted him so badly. I wanted to suck the marrow stains off his fingers, savor the loud flavors of cuts and slabs of spicy beef and goose and diced chicken. When we pulled away, his eyes melted like grease off a bone - Thawing. Glistening. White.

I was going to sail through the roof, that's how hyper I was. I was waiting for a jetpack to grow out of my spine and propel me upward, my head splintering the shingles like I was Willy Wonka driving the glass elevator out of the factory. Too much sugar? No. I was just psyched. I had received the concert tickets yesterday, and I was ready to see one of the greatest bands ever. But who to go with?

Three Bettas by Belinda Roddie Three bettas, all fabulous, swimming in a pretty trinity, reuniting at the pebble castle to trade winks with each other, barter for color, and move with currents against the jet stream leading up into the glass.

" 'Tis a gift to be simple, 'tis a gift to be free..." "Well, which one is it?" The choir master stopped conducting and looked at me. I sneered back. "What?" "How can you be simple and free at the same time?" "Um...I..." "Oh, I see." I sifted my hand out of my red robe and wagged a finger. "You're getting philosophical. Ignorance is bliss, and bliss is freedom from ills. Correct?"

Adopt A Friend by Belinda Roddie If you drag your sneakers through the melted asphalt of Fifteenth Avenue, you'll find the Adopt-A-Friend Center riddled with wreaths from last Christmas and cheap gaudy white lights, with a sign too bright to be looked at by the human eye. When you go to the front desk, a twenty-something girl with a 'tude and nice boobs will ask for your name, age, social security number, and all your feeeeeeeeeeelings. Yeah. You want someone to swing on swings with? Nah, less seven-year-old bliss. Ice cream never gets old, though. Movie nights? Chugging pitchers of beer? Too bro? Nah, man. Maybe someone you can hold hands with without being called lovers. A shared smile. A cup of homebrewed coffee. A simple text message. A nod. A hug. Straightforward. Doesn't need the credentials of a hipster, or the potential to be a musical genius. You don't need smart, or strong, or brave. You just want someone you can find sitting a...

"Higher!" I push. Her legs kick up in front of her like the tails of a curly-haired kite. She's all colors, all smiles. "Higher, Uncle Jerry! Higher!" She's streaming through the sunlight streaming through her hair, which is streaming out behind her. Her eyes are bluer than the sky. Her tongue pokes slightly out of her mouth as she laughs. After this, she'll ask for ice cream.

Sissy by Belinda Roddie Hey, dreary, weary, top-heavy, bottom-swollen sissy boy, let's play pogo stick with your ego and wait to see your manhood quake between your twig thighs like a loose splinter. Let's take off your shirt and expose the fleshy rivulets up and down your caved in waistline. Trace the cracks and fissures like we're reading a dead palm. Curve our fingers against the knobbly Adam's apple until we can stroke the boyish stubble while we giggle, giggle, pretending we want to kiss you when all we want to do is prod you like sad, soggy, chemical-soaked clay. Don't cry. Crying's for sissies. Didn't your daddy tell you that over exoskeletons caught in amber melting into a V-neck, unsnapping the eel from the salty hip and cutting an X below your jaw? Because when you cry, we lick the hot lava from your charred face, watching you tumble, tumble, tumble against our hands and wrap your arms around yourself three times to...