Snippets

Coffee for Breakfast

I sometimes gaze at my reflection, my eyes drawn to my belly. Is it slim? How can I be sure? In comparison to my hips, my breasts, my upper arms that never fail to disgust me? I touch my belly, relieved that it at least feels firm. But the squishy bits I imagine to be a sludge of yellow grease beneath my skin drag me down. I straighten myself, hoping to appear slimmer. The music I put on distracts me, and I start to move. Seeing my body in motion eases so many of my worries. I start to shake, and my waist muscles begin their routine. My hips move fast and slow, shaking away the expectations placed on my body. My hips move for me, the snake inside with a mind and dance of its own. The cave of my stomach rumbles with the familiar sensation of emptiness. My eyes fixed on my slithering body in the mirror. The taste of coffee drips from my throat into my chest and plays the lead role of today's breakfast.

Squirrels Nest

I know I’ve been having fun when I go to brush my hair and find a nest of tangled hay and cobwebs, quite possibly home to a squirrel or two at the back of my head. I stumble to the bathroom with my slippers on. The hard floor was too much of a shock to my senses from the warm cloud of a bed that held me for the last 12 hours. I take hold of the wood grit handle of my hairbrush and tug at the crunching, lurching mess. I sift through memories of all the fun I’ve had in the past week, searching for the last time I washed my hair. The ends are crispy and dry, the roots smell of skin, and the grease is like a forgotten kitchen fan filter. Within moments of brushing through the mess, the nest at the back returns. As though my hair would prefer to become a home for the squirrels rather than being pulled up into a pretty bun of a ballet dancer. My tummy squeezes as I look at the time. I don’t have time to shower. I turn sideways to look at my belly. Disappointed with what I see. A belly that could nest a baby. My body groans for motherhood. Meanwhile, I can’t even take care of my hair. Longing to feel an infant in my arms, to rest on my softness and share life through feeding on my breasts. I’ll be skipping breakfast yet again and perfecting my posture at the barre and in the mirror of the ballet studio. I’ll become absorbed in placing every part of me into perfection instead.

Feather

A feather dances down from the sky, and your eyes follow mine. My heart enlivens, feeling the presence of a higher being and seeing that you seem to recognize it, too.

Imposter on Stage

She offers me a bouquet of a thousand perfectly picked flowers. Each stands proud and fulfills their purpose of being together at this moment. I fall numb, dreaming, floating above my body. Undeserving and disbelief. Instinct bows my head and tucks one leg behind the other in reverence. Then, my hand reaches out in acceptance. The flowers' perfume hugs my senses, bringing me back down to earth. I feel the texture of the stems and the petals, allowing myself to be absorbed in their perfect expression. Their pure love. Inhaling deep breaths of their scented magic, allowing my eyes to rest and bathe in the colours and soft shapes. I notice the audience standing and cheering like a sea of snapping turtles in a dark ocean. Phosphorescence twinkles as cameras flash. I notice my cheeks aching, a big smile I can’t contain. The cool drop of a tear against my hot cheeks. I am burning under stage lights. As though under the midsummer sun.

A Kiss of Death

A kiss to his lips is putrid. Although completely unaware, he draws me close, confused when I pull away. The taste of death, a mouth completely hollowed from decay. He coughs a demon out of his chest or tries to. With each cough, the beast kicks and punches from the inside out, begging for another cigarette. I shiver at the sound. However, he speaks as though all is well. The beast inside needs cigarettes to survive. This demon is his most loyal of companions. He leans in for a kiss, unaware of how grotesque it is to place one's lips against those that have served as an ashtray for over 20 years and blackened, deadened. Dare I tell him why I pull away? When my lips don’t meet him, he finds them another partner—washing down the rejection with some of tomorrow's hoppy liquid happiness. He pops the tab on the cool, sharp can, and the ghoul sighs with relief. Its smile shines through while the eyes of its host fade away. He reaches his arms to hold me for comfort. I'm drawn in like a magnet to soothe the suffering soul.

Meanwhile, the other side of me runs for the hills so that I may not rot while being placed beside a mouldy apple. I rest my head on the skin of his hard, bare chest, his heart beating. For how long?