Dust Bunnies

A bouquet of dust bunnies in my head. Dirty, battered feet.

I didn’t want to leave this bed today, but I did, because I’m motivated by stupid, babyish things. Like that dress and sweater I cast aside last night, to wear today. With pantyhose three shades darker than my natural skin tone.

I grow paler everyday, and I think this gray tooth, it’s pretty much decaying. But that’s okay. Braces were something I wanted so badly, at thirteen years old. Nearing twenty-three, I realized any sensible person doesn’t care about how straight and flawless your teeth are.

I am that off-putting kid whose everyday happenings mirror that of a “Bad Luck Brian” meme. I don’t mean to, but when I just want to fulfill someone’s request to write a letter every once in a while, and only scare that person away, what’s the point of a pen pal?

If I were coordinated, and my parents cared to put me in dance lessons as soon as one possibly could, well, I would have left that showing of Black Swan thinking, “Woah, I can totally relate!” Just like every sad young girl who reads or watches something gripping and wants to somehow take a piece of that everywhere she goes. Primarily to job interviews.

I said I’d visit you back in September, but mid-month I decided not to. How in the hell do you start life anew?

The dust bunnies sit back, and drink their cognac and sing their songs. I grind my teeth at 3 AM, and rock myself back and forth. I almost hit the wall. The bunnies, the accidental boo boos, my abused molars. These are too real (well, maybe not the bunnies, but you never know).

But I do not need to be told, for the septillionth time, that they were birthed out of a scoffing towards God. It’s an unsolicited answer communicated so often that I wonder if it’s true.

And if those who so fervently relay the message get some sort of commission, amounts vary by circumstance.

Pre-order Connie Undone on Amazon. Or, buy a signed copy from me directly for $12. 

on break

work a good job.

advice seeming sound
though butterflies grin
with such taunting quickness.

I glare, stare, as hard as one possibly dares when it feels like fried eggs litter the street, their whites like paper towels absorbing complaints and greetings and backtalk I understand too well, but do not adopt. Sometimes tree branches play their tricks like perpetually red stoplights. We think it’ll rain and fetch our umbrellas. Later, we’ll juggle our heavier bags, shoulder blades caught in summer’s pressure.

breathe the savory dream.

Cat No. 77 of the 500 Cats Project