My Cardboard Balcony

Quilted Heart by Belinda Roddie Sometimes I wonder if the concave eye in my chest is covered by a sheer, or perhaps, in the end, something must thicker: A handstitched, painstaking design - one representing an ancient past, or perhaps an awkward, yet steady, future. I have a quilted heart: The kind that needs protecting. The kind who tucks Washingtons into plastic jars for public opinion. Who orders pizza for a dear friend thousands of miles away. The kind that appears strong, but fabric is only fabric. It tears easily. The holes are noticeable, flaws and indiscrepancies. You can swaddle what's beneath a ribcage, but the cradle is never safe from impending wind. It rocks and it sways and it falls according to the song.

The entire apartment was infested with them. Creeping, crawling, making strange noises. Pretending that they could fly without wings. Leaving everything rotten, every food product ruined, every can emptied. They were attracted to sugar, to alcohol, to salt, to everything. I didn't know what to do. So I called an exterminator. "Ah, the hipsters," she chuckled as she surveyed the problem. "I'll play mainstream pop and have 'em out in no time."

The Wine Wasn't Even That Good by Belinda Roddie This is not where the cork is supposed to go. Instead of rising to the occasion, it descends, while the Cabernet erupts in a sickly fermented fashion: T-shirts and glasses, carpet and counters. And once you pour the liquid survivors into a carafe, the cork stays, sleeping, in the hollow abyss.

Portobello Sliders by Belinda Roddie You broke up with me on a Monday evening over homemade portobello mushroom sliders, soggy zucchini, and white wine, stilted from the hand of summer pressed over my mouth. You ate three sliders on my Doctor Who- themed plate: Two with bleu cheese, one with artichoke and spinach and feta. Arugula drooped like a sad whisker from your lower lip. When I was done crying over your confession, the whole world lurched forward. Time stopped, but the Youtube video that were watching kept going. And the guy making audio commentary kept laughing about fools and laughing about "nice guys" and laughing about Tinder's love stories. I wish I could have made you choke on fungus soaked in soy sauce and olive oil after punching you in the throat.