For I rejoice
over small beads
of warm red blood
on the white underbelly
of my arm.
Yet, I also recoil
at the meaning
the blood brings along
to the party
to which it was apprehensively invited.
The beads turn into a light
stream of warmth
like a blanket that
well-meaning mothers spread
to cover all wounds.
Back and forth
emotions are juggled
like the flames
the bearded man tosses
at the circus,
only hotter somehow.
I’m giddy at the thought
of mother seeing
the wound I created
not for her,
but for what she isn’t.
About the Creator
Vanessa Jasek
I write words.
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Clinging to Childhood
The playground is empty, as it should be past sundown. There is a warm breeze, and I can see everything despite the late hour. What time is it, anyway? It could very well be past midnight. I can never keep track of time, especially in the summer. A prickly piece of popcorn hides like a stowaway in the left cup of my padded training bra. I stuffed the tissue in last minute— a decision I’m beginning to regret, based on the events that are unfolding rapidly before me. To my left, laying non-chalantly on his back, is my date for the evening. He is two years older, could probably grow facial hair if he wanted to, and drives a secondhand Honda. He may as well be a Man. I, on the other hand, feel like a fraud with my too-short short-shorts, sparkly lip gloss, and makeshift push-up bra. I keep my arms pinned to my sides as I feel the dreaded circles of sweat beginning to manifest on my brand new Abercrombie top. I cup my elbows with my hands and stare down at my hint of cleavage, praying that the tissue doesn’t pop out like a white flag surrendouring my lack of womanhood.
By Marti Maley7 days ago in Fiction
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