My Cardboard Balcony

Please by Belinda Roddie Just drag and drop my soul into the recycling bin.

Blueprints by Belinda Roddie My dreams have prophesied, perhaps, my future stories. Whether or not I write them is an entirely different matter altogether. A friendship through cosplay gone wrong. A strange play that, once a smash hit, tanks with each revival - until a new director enters the fray. All REM enterprises, somehow, weaving a coherent thread. Now it's up to me to somehow build a tapestry from these strings. Wish me luck. I'm gonna need it.

The Truth by Beliinda Roddie Unravel the blue line, and you'll always find a Nazi.

No. No. No. I'm not doing it. I'm not going to be introspective this week. I'm not going to talk anymore about this shit. Fuck this week. Fuck people I thought were my friends not getting how much they hurt me and the people I love. Fuck my former abuser. Fuck this plague. Fuck the constant murdering of Black people. Fuck transphobia. Fuck the fatigue. Fuck triggers. Fuck PTSD. Fuck everything. Okay?! ...Okay, not everything sucks. But still. This week can jump off a cliff. Have a great night and a great weekend, everyone. BECAUSE I SURE WANT THAT, TOO!

Fucking FIX THIS! by Belinda Roddie I want to say something so badly. I want to say something so badly. I want to say something so badly. I want to say something so badly. I want to say something so badly. I want to read the riot act until I'm blue in the face. But I can't. Because they don't see it. They don't get it. And it makes me wanna SCREAM .

Pure Gold by Belinda Roddie So apparently, I'm very good at comedically retelling Bible stories.

I Cannot Say by Belinda Roddie I cannot say a single goddamn word to rectify a sad situation, and while I get it, it still fucking hurts to see my loved ones all still suffering. My mediator brain is on the fritz as I navigate - gasp! - being silent rather than "teacher" or diplomatic (though geez, this is a teachable moment). How can I stitch my lips shut when I scream and cry as flashbacks rattle through my skull? After all, I can only burst the seams I've sewn until my wailing's a black hole, a gaping void, a self-inflicted curse - and most likely, I'm just making it worse.