My Cardboard Balcony

I'm not going to lie: I'm scared. I'm scared of a lot of things these days. I'm scared of my words being taken out of context. I'm scared of being falsely accused of something I didn't do. I'm scared that my attempts at showing compassion and caring will backfire tremendously, and every good intention I have is misinterpreted. I'm scared that I'll be ostracized from society. I'm scared I will never make anyone happy. I'm scared that I'm not enough. I hate being scared. But I have to keep going. I have to remind myself of how capable I am. I have to remember that I have students who appreciate me, family who appreciates me, loved ones who appreciate me. Loved ones who will protect me from harm and support me no matter what hostility is cast my way. I have to remember how much I have to offer the small world around me. I tried to remember this week, when my students presented their performance poems to the class and to me one on...

Veggie Grease by Belinda Roddie I stained my shirt with asparagus. Didn't expect that, huh?

A Cheap Red Card by Belinda Roddie A cheap red card in the shape of a heart was all that Bobby had to offer Kim at the coffee shop after a slow start to his morning shift. Somehow, on a whim, he grabbed the paper and the scissors from the back room, snipping away until he had made a proper symbol of love. Numb, he watched as Kim unfolded it. Slowly, she sipped her coffee, and Bobby's blood turned to frost in his veins. She stood up and left without another word. Bobby's eyes burned, his stomach aching, as he was bereft of any answers, whether good or bad, and the poor barista went home quite sad.

I am the reproductive offspring of artificial intelligence and a sad mother, who cradled a broken robot in her arms at the end of the world, who kissed its head and wept until the tears filled a small room, who whispered all her secrets to a processor that was no longer processing. I don't walk; I float. I run code, and I am immortal. I have not seen my mother since I emerged from her womb, fully uploaded.

A Response To Having Both My Words And Intentions Completely And Utterly Warped by Belinda Roddie I'm not sure why, when our conversation's over, every word that I've crafted so carefully like hot metal gets returned to me all scrunched up like aluminum foil, unrecognizable. I try to uncurl the syllables, but they're beyond mending, and I can't remold them with my teeth because chewing on aluminum foil is a bad idea. I don't get it. You have this weird image of me. Distorted like a painting from a horny Picasso, his eyes glazed over at the thought of sticking his callused, oil-stained fingers where they don't belong. The sentences I speak are skewed as soon as they are propped up on stools. They're slanted, struggling to remember what they actually mean. I have to admit, if you've branded me as the Devil, then you've given my sloppy cunning way more credit than it actually deserves.

3:35 PM. I board the metro at Larson Station. Sit myself between two dilapidated benches because then that way, no one can turn me into a people sandwich. I find my last working earbuds and pop them in, and soon, it’s symphonic metal for the next seven stops. I’m on this train for a long time. Being a commuter blows.