Frog in the Rein
By Paula Ray
Silver-scaled thoughts of him swim in the aquarium of my skull. They are piranha and my cinnamon cerebellum is such a tasty treat with its snicker-doodle dough wrapped in waxed paper.
He calls me “Goldilocks” and laps my porridge with his dirty-dog tongue then licks my face to slobber his point. Globs of the mess I cooked temporarily blind me when he does that. I hate that. I think he does it to just prove Prince Charming is a hermaphrodite who needs a mushroom that will not grow between my marshmallow thighs. Who wants fungus there anyway? He claims the hallucinogenic cream in my pastry is more than sufficient. You see, we’ll never fit perfectly, but we fit. Happily ever after endings fail to tell you life isn’t a puzzle.
Inadequacy is contagious.
Maybe that’s why he’s been breaking me--turning out the lights and putting dream-drops in my ear at bedtime. His horse-whisperer magic has built up my immunity against diseased philosophies. Best part is, he didn’t have to stab me to do it. Although, I wouldn’t have minded being pierced somewhere cool.
He likes to play the damsel in distress from time to time. I’ve taught myself how to slay dragons. That really turns him on. When I woke up this morning, my hair was straight and brown. I liked it better that way. I had blisters and my hands smelled sexy like leather with a hint of rosin. I looked for him, but I only caught a glimpse of his shadow hopping away.
- - -
Paula Ray is a musician from Wilmington, North Carolina where she writes poetry, stories, and songs. Her work has appeared in Word Riot, elimae, decomP, DOGZPLOT, Pequin, and other small press zines.
By Paula Ray
Silver-scaled thoughts of him swim in the aquarium of my skull. They are piranha and my cinnamon cerebellum is such a tasty treat with its snicker-doodle dough wrapped in waxed paper.
He calls me “Goldilocks” and laps my porridge with his dirty-dog tongue then licks my face to slobber his point. Globs of the mess I cooked temporarily blind me when he does that. I hate that. I think he does it to just prove Prince Charming is a hermaphrodite who needs a mushroom that will not grow between my marshmallow thighs. Who wants fungus there anyway? He claims the hallucinogenic cream in my pastry is more than sufficient. You see, we’ll never fit perfectly, but we fit. Happily ever after endings fail to tell you life isn’t a puzzle.
Inadequacy is contagious.
Maybe that’s why he’s been breaking me--turning out the lights and putting dream-drops in my ear at bedtime. His horse-whisperer magic has built up my immunity against diseased philosophies. Best part is, he didn’t have to stab me to do it. Although, I wouldn’t have minded being pierced somewhere cool.
He likes to play the damsel in distress from time to time. I’ve taught myself how to slay dragons. That really turns him on. When I woke up this morning, my hair was straight and brown. I liked it better that way. I had blisters and my hands smelled sexy like leather with a hint of rosin. I looked for him, but I only caught a glimpse of his shadow hopping away.
- - -
Paula Ray is a musician from Wilmington, North Carolina where she writes poetry, stories, and songs. Her work has appeared in Word Riot, elimae, decomP, DOGZPLOT, Pequin, and other small press zines.
0 Responses
Post a Comment
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
