Mold
By April Wright
Flakes of my skin waltz along the early morning sunshine as I hear Them burst through my door. I knew they would come sooner or later.
They always do.
I try to get up from the bed. The piss-stained mattress squeaking as I rock my upper body, back and forth, the rotting fumes of human waste reaching my nose. My legs, crossed Indian style amid tangled sheets and rat shit, refuse to move. I look down to find that my entire lower half is covered in mold.
Sooner or later life will do that to you.
I can hear Them moving scattered bits of furniture, a table out the door, a chair through the window, the sound of breaking glass echoing throughout the trailer. I worry about my good China stacked in a box on the microwave.
My sister left yesterday or two days, or maybe even two weeks ago. Time has no meaning when you sleep, eat, and breathe on a Tempur-Pedic coffin. The only memory is one of her yelling incoherently while throwing food on the bed, a fireworks display of multi-colored snack cakes. She didn’t even bother to clean my ass, just left me sitting in my own filth. Now as I move my upper body I can smell a week’s worth of crap. Truthfully I don’t even remember taking a shit. I guess, like my sister, shit leaves of its own volition without any prodding from me.
A man loved me once. His skin was the color of sable; mine the color of translucent white. My hair would flow through his fingers like spun gold.
Naked Morning intertwined with a sleeping Night.
But true love does not survive when you have a racist mother who drinks Listerine and bathes in Turpentine. My dark Night resides in a jewelry box as pictures half eaten by cockroaches, his perfect features now so much dung that hides beneath my pillows.
I hear Them at my bedroom door.
I use to be skinny. Until my mind was poisoned by Little Debbie and Cherry Coke. While my mother dined on cheap cologne and bug spray, I ate my way through life. When she bathed herself in rubbing alcohol, I devoured a box of Honey Buns. When she covered her hair in Vaseline, I wrapped myself in a blanket of Snickers. Mother stayed the same, but I did not. Hell I was 600 pounds before I knew it. Dropping that kind of weight is a useless task. Diets are the work of Satan.
Richard Simmons is a hellish fiend.
They burst in; a white cloud of dust entering the room like night fog, each one dressed the same, blue shirt, blue pants, and a white mask covering their mouths. I don’t speak. I’ve been here before. Different faces, but They are all the same. The extraction is the hardest. Usually They just take out the wall. One of Them comes near me, armed stretched out, hand clasping a doughnut, a zoo animal getting a treat from a tourist.
I eat it.
- - -
I make my home in the hills of eastern Kentucky. I work as a librarian for the Pike County Public Library District. My main passions are writing and reading copious amounts of strange innovative literature.
By April Wright
Flakes of my skin waltz along the early morning sunshine as I hear Them burst through my door. I knew they would come sooner or later.
They always do.
I try to get up from the bed. The piss-stained mattress squeaking as I rock my upper body, back and forth, the rotting fumes of human waste reaching my nose. My legs, crossed Indian style amid tangled sheets and rat shit, refuse to move. I look down to find that my entire lower half is covered in mold.
Sooner or later life will do that to you.
I can hear Them moving scattered bits of furniture, a table out the door, a chair through the window, the sound of breaking glass echoing throughout the trailer. I worry about my good China stacked in a box on the microwave.
My sister left yesterday or two days, or maybe even two weeks ago. Time has no meaning when you sleep, eat, and breathe on a Tempur-Pedic coffin. The only memory is one of her yelling incoherently while throwing food on the bed, a fireworks display of multi-colored snack cakes. She didn’t even bother to clean my ass, just left me sitting in my own filth. Now as I move my upper body I can smell a week’s worth of crap. Truthfully I don’t even remember taking a shit. I guess, like my sister, shit leaves of its own volition without any prodding from me.
A man loved me once. His skin was the color of sable; mine the color of translucent white. My hair would flow through his fingers like spun gold.
Naked Morning intertwined with a sleeping Night.
But true love does not survive when you have a racist mother who drinks Listerine and bathes in Turpentine. My dark Night resides in a jewelry box as pictures half eaten by cockroaches, his perfect features now so much dung that hides beneath my pillows.
I hear Them at my bedroom door.
I use to be skinny. Until my mind was poisoned by Little Debbie and Cherry Coke. While my mother dined on cheap cologne and bug spray, I ate my way through life. When she bathed herself in rubbing alcohol, I devoured a box of Honey Buns. When she covered her hair in Vaseline, I wrapped myself in a blanket of Snickers. Mother stayed the same, but I did not. Hell I was 600 pounds before I knew it. Dropping that kind of weight is a useless task. Diets are the work of Satan.
Richard Simmons is a hellish fiend.
They burst in; a white cloud of dust entering the room like night fog, each one dressed the same, blue shirt, blue pants, and a white mask covering their mouths. I don’t speak. I’ve been here before. Different faces, but They are all the same. The extraction is the hardest. Usually They just take out the wall. One of Them comes near me, armed stretched out, hand clasping a doughnut, a zoo animal getting a treat from a tourist.
I eat it.
- - -
I make my home in the hills of eastern Kentucky. I work as a librarian for the Pike County Public Library District. My main passions are writing and reading copious amounts of strange innovative literature.
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