Sunday, May 20, 2012
it's just a scratch
fear not. I am not all fat, blue, trembling lips. part of me is actually blushing;selfishly pink. I am at times, like I was when I was a girl: all scrapes, all teeth, roaring. do you remember me this way? of course you don't. you never remember anything even though you were there. Now the girlish part of me is hoping what I've said makes you so uncomfortable, that you itch in only inconvenient places, and your nails lack the fortitude to scratch.
Tickle your toes. . .
Ah, 7. The number in question. During this process of developing my first full-length work of prose, and a memoir to boot, I have considered...
where are my garden gloves to weed out your evils? where are my rubber gloves to scrub off your stupid? where are my surgical gloves to cut ...