leesuhmarie

Spinning naked, dizzy, wet bare feet on tile floor. Dripping puddles in the shapes of body parts. Shape shifting pieces of myself left to pool and gather, releasing heat in rising steam. Like that game hot lava that we played as little kids. Leaping over cooling puddles, but pretending they're still hot to avoid the obligation of cleaning up my shedding skins.  

I used to see my feet. They weren't particularly nice, calloused and rugged, but still feminine (most of the time) As I've aged,  they seem to be retreating. Though I can still see them,   it is with effort. I do a dance around my stomach for a clear visual. When I do look at them,  I worry. I worry about the spider veins and convince myself that I am diabetic. I worry about the hair on my big toe and how it seems to darken each year. I worry about stained heels. Is it really a good idea to wear sandals with those pants? Most of all,  I worry about kankles. I worry about becoming someone's joke, an easy target for a cruel new pop

For years I listened to the busy chatter, talk of a Charlie, Oscar David or Edward. Their names echoed through a single speaker, riddled with particles of dust I never tried to clean. A black metal box whose dial never moved, my father’s static lifeline to a city outside of a country road. It became my background noise, a spoken coded broadcast meant for special ears, not mine. Still, I listened to a dispatcher who skipped the obligatory Hello, how are you doing, to police who spoke of people and problems in names and numbers, to emergency personnel who rushed from place to place without the chance to ever look back. And I heard the

I will claim that I can count the stars, and you will disagree,  we will compete until I win because you let me. And I will take your hand in mine dragging you to the dark depths of the desert where we’ll lie in the dirt with the itching crawl of insects beneath our backs. And we will think about the houses we abandoned, the things inside we worked so hard to buy, and I think we’ll agree that this is worth it. And then we’ll hitchhike across state lines in the bed of a pickup, with the rolling exhaust clogging up our lungs. And we will choke down the fumes with the sweet smoke of a rolled cigarette. The interstate moo

In the cold silence, I can almost hear the praises of my neighbors, wrapped in blankets with furnaces ablaze. I’ve seen them peek through windows, with doors locked tight; children itching to sneak outside and parents unwilling to give in. On the frozen balcony, I stand, waiting for the splitting blinds, the stream of light, shattered by faces of youth trapped behind frosted window panes. Trickling from the willow tree, the last remnants of a day, outside of the ordinary, natural colors twinkling white like static on the television screen. And though the sky quit long ago, the tree still bares the weight on its shaky twisted limbs,

Oh, tiny human. I can hear you in the next room over. Your voice echoes off the walls, along with an occasional thump. I've grown to know that there is a 3 second window with you. A bang, crash, or thud, and then 3 seconds. I hold my breath for each of these moments, each time. And I know that if there are no cries of pain within those moments, things are just fine in your little world. I can hear you chanting hi-yaws and ka-pows so I imagine that you have taken on some force beyond my adult recognition. From where I'm sitting, things sound to be working in your favor in there. Though I want so bad to interrupt, to join the game and come to y