My Cardboard Balcony

My Father's Mustache by Belinda Roddie My father's mustache drooped over his lip, a shaggy mop of sadness covering his quiv'ring mouth. Silent, he dared not slip a word of sorrow to us, lest he bring a shade of worry across the faces of his children. However, I knew that his days within his study, hardly dressed, were indicative of an inner spat between his mind and his heart. Such a mood was not contagious to me, but it did spur me to spend time with him. Though he'd brood, I'd hold his hand and cope with it. I hid all my pains from him - it was the most I could do for my father, who'd never cry.

If I stay, will you hold me closer instead of backing away? Will you let my share your drink, spare a sip of your straw, instead of pour half into a distant vessel? Will you tell me that my eyes are beautiful today - crystal clear, free of tears, bright enough to send the room spinning in a rainbow - rather than looking down, averting your gaze, wondering when the monster will force me out again?

Until Dawn Kisses Us by Belinda Roddie We spill our guts out from bottles, while the moon boasts pumpkin filling, just in time for the glorified autumn season. Fall, fall, fall. When it's dark, everyone can see us. They hear the crunch of summer skeletons beneath our trembling feet. Their phones light up the trees around us. Glow, glow, glow. You and I don't like to sleep much. When the party gets too rowdy, we crawl away from the stain of beer and belches in the corner. Until dawn treats us like lovers, we'll grow sick over our beakers, strike a pose against the hillside, and clink wishes with wishes, extra suds, verbal foam splashing behind our tongues.

He played bass, and she played guitar, and I was always stuck with the tambourine. I could play keys, I'd protest loudly. I could try fiddle or accordion or reeds. I could even kill on the vocals, but no. Little Joanna played the tambourine. Little Joanna always played the tambourine. Even when she was fifteen years old, grungy, and riddled with acne. Like it was even remotely still "cute."

After She Moved Out by Belinda Roddie You wouldn't recognize her these days, when she leaves dents on the streets. She's taller now, and thinner, all the artificial divots glowing from beneath her white, tattered T-shirt. Scars are hard to hide. She smokes two cigarettes at a time before she takes the bus to nowhere, the only place where she feels safe, her very short hair bristling, such a stark contrast from the Beauty and the Beast curls knotted up behind her head. Most noticeable is the change in her eyes, which you could catch even when she was walking toward you from two blocks away, as well as her smile. But she doesn't smile anymore under the bruises, and her eyes just aren't what they used to be.

Two jerkwads, in one day, decided to tailgate me while I was on the freeway. Never mind the fact that there were three other lanes, barely filled with vehicles. Never mind the fact that I specifially had a bumper sticker practically shouting, "God Bless Those Tailgaters!" Never mind the fact that I was never going to go above the speed limit, not since the accident my father had gotten us into. I pumped the brake three times for both of them, and when they got off my tail, I ignored their blaring middle fingers.

Limited Resources by Belinda Roddie They've stored the last of grace in bottles, for richer men to drink. I've lost a friend or two to indulgence, but I'll take a tray to them regardless. Vial after vial of prayers from pews, swirling in glass and sour in taste. I'll pour them new doses if the words don't feel honest enough, to give souls a boost  when salvation is scarce.