My Cardboard Balcony

The Protagonist by Belinda Roddie She was an old, raggedy bitch, and I loved her. The tropes she carried on her back made her who she was, and yet she was never too much of a hardass to me. She was the star of her own imaginary movie, an unconventional hero in the plot. Her gray curls added shadow to her eyes filled with sparks. She breathed fire like a dragon - but she was my dragon. The first sentence of this poem comes courtesy of Noel Guscott. Thanks, man.

There was much to be done before the holidays - lights to hang up, presents to wrap, tasty sweets to consume. I had bought myself a box of candy canes to stick into mugs of hot chocolate for some friends of mine, and while sitting at the glowing fireplace, I realized that, for the first time in a long time, I was content. I wasn't overjoyed, ecstatic, or overly energetic - but I was content. And that was enough.

Collector's Items by Belinda Roddie Look what you started - you've pinned my wits down like flowers in a book. All the pages are brown, and the words have bled together like black rain. The stories are all one saga now. The flowers are wilted. I'll discard this tome like all the others. You say my thoughts and dreams are worth drying and preserving, but in truth, they hold as much weight as salt in the ocean, and they don't leave nearly as much of a taste in your mouth as the spray of the sea does in summer time.

There was no hatred in her voice. There was no malice in her tone. Yet there she was, and here I was, observing her upon her throne. She did not speak evil to me. She did not plan to do me in. Yet there she was, and here I was, repenting for my biggest sin. She said to me, "Alas, poor soul. Not sure if you'll be growing old."

Is It Winter Yet? by Belinda Roddie Out west, it doesn't really snow, but the spray of the bay keeps the air frosty enough to make white shadows out of your breath. There's detail in the red and gold leaves dangling like limp hands outside the window. They tattoo their fingerprints onto the glass; their veins bulge outward, revealing the road map of their fragile, impermanent bodies. You wear slippers with your bathrobe and drink tea that's strong enough for a god. I'm eager to slip into your arms, like a bundle for you to carry up to bed. But I'm not swaddled - I'm swathed in abandoned stardust, and that, unlike the chill outside, is too hot to touch without gloves. Out west, if you get closer to the mountains, the blizzards begin in earnest, and you get lost in the tendrils of white and gray whiskers on an angry old man's face. He tries to sleep, but just like you, he is shaken by the insomnia of the season. And you drink you...

I don't believe in the righteous ones: They always end up wrong in the end. They always lie and cheat and steal, and they always harm the women. The righteous ones are ugly both inside and out, and they know it, too. They wear suits in order to hide their black and twisted hearts. They drink champagne so the bubbles ease the pits of wrath in their stomachs. I don't believe in the righteous ones; they were never righteous to begin with.

"I'd love to go to the party now," barked Helena from the other room, "but it'd really help if the zipper wasn't stuck on my jacket!" Emma laughed and sighed before entering Helena's bedroom, where her friend was struggling to move the metal bastard up and down without success. Emma let her fingers dance across the front of Helena's beautiful leather jacket, the blue hue matching her freshly painted fingernails.