My Cardboard Balcony

Denial by Belinda Roddie Please don't let it be so that my darling has been stolen away from me that her restless soul has been set free Please, please don't let it be so She was growing flowers for me She was growing flowers with sickly buds and the petals all drugged with the perfume of ecstasy She was growing flowers for me The carriage was waiting for her Its driver was dressed in black wearing spurs The hum of the Styx in everyone's ears The carriage was waiting for her And here I am, alone with no one else to call my own with tears that petrify into somber stone Please, please don't let it be so

"So what's it about?" "Um...what's what about?" "The story." He gesticulated wildly at the book. "Th-the novel. What's the plot?" "Oh." She giggled. "It's not much, really. It's pretty simple. Just this young woman who decides to teach in Alaska for a year and winds up falling in love." "With a handsome guy from town?" "A handsome gal, actually, but close enough."

by Belinda Roddie I'm looking past it all. All the times you said you'd be there. All the times you said you'd make an effort. All times you accepted my forgiveness for your trespasses. But the holy water wasn't enough, was it? It was too warm. The humidity attacked Christ's purity, and it gave your fingers the shade of a demon's tongue every time. You weren't there where the sun hit the stained glass windows just right. You said nothing when I needed a diatribe. And you walled yourself off the moment I asked for you to topple every brick that was mounted in our way. Convenient, isn't it? How you build your defenses just in time for any minor assault? Yet I'm looking past it all. I'm looking past all the repeated offenses. All the moments you reminded me that I was your one and only. All the lapses of judgment, leading to emptied highballs and smashed tables. Your breath smelling like a cross between asphalt and lime. My mother wants me...

When was the last time we went to the market on Sunday together, my love? We used to buy baskets of peaches and cherries and cute tiny jars of sweet almonds. We'd then by the bay and ate nuts by the handful and break fruit to bits with our teeth. Then we'd kiss, and the salt in the air would mingle on our lips as the sun started setting.

I need to forgive myself for being human. I need to forgive myself for being stressed. I need to forgive myself for making mistakes. I need to forgive myself for being overly repetitive or inattentive or just plain overly hyperfocused on little things. I need to forgive myself for a lot of stuff. Of course, my anxiety and my guilt complex make that pretty tricky. This year, I have higher expectations for myself. Bear in mind, no one set the bar for me - I did that on my own. I decided that last year was going to be about making it through everything and putting together a finished yearbook and not royally screwing up with my English classes. Turns out, I did fairly well, and because I'm more experienced as a teacher now, and I have more students who are willing to work and doing more than what I saw last year, I'm now holding myself to a much loftier standard. It's all arbitrary. All of it. And yet, I can't seem to be satisfied. I must always do better. Always, ...

Mandated by Belinda Roddie As your government appointed wife, I'm obligated to love you.