Happy

The final storms are rolling in soon and The fact is, the storm will devour me. A rain-scented candle fills my room. Inside and outside, a dog growled viciously. Grilled cheese is fantastically greasy, As I watch the storm from the beach. The wet grass gently prods my toes. The water felt the way maple syrup tasted on a warm pancake. We wanted to see the Braves one day. In Turner Stadium with Jimi Hendrix. Except we can’t, because Jimi Hendrix is dead. And we don’t want to see the Braves anyway. The ice cream made my head ache in a delightful way. I kissed you because I wasn’t unhappy anymore. He told his baby mama he wasn’t coming home anytime soon. I held your hand because the air was soft and caressing. Over yonder where maters grown in dem fields. The purple house of love we live in on Reed Street. Is burning down. The tome was a feather in my mind. I flew threw storm clouds to see you in the morning dew. The grass towered over our bodies. Hillbilly is laughing at your lack of knowledge on any certain subject. Our lives will be full of presents and purple houses until the day after forever. A happy monster eats black beans from a variety of bowls. I must tell the story to silently protest gun violence. La bonita muchacha es muy blonde in life outside her own. The water bottle made a disapproving face at my stretch-marked thighs. The soft, warm buttery yellowness of the pancake wafted. Our purple house sinks softly tomorrow. The bed wrapped its pillow arms around us. Meeting my doppelgänger seemed a deus ex machina. We’re leaving because I’m locked in place. You’re eating the soapy sandwich. The noxious gas will bring us happiness. Biscuit lives to paint the sky with glue. My doppelgänger, also the muchacha, cries daggers and knives that bring healing wounds to her eyes. The blinding cracker of sympathy brought us together. Ain’t y’all chillun appy wif life? We ain’t because pinecones aren’t stars. I searched the Twitterverse for the one, but there turned out to be many, too many. Our lives do not contain presents and noxious gas only brings death. Kurt Cobain told me to meet him at A Broken Egg Café. My doppelgänger went instead to taste the light of day. Our laughter filled the open hall, where sharp needles pricked our fingers. The smell of earth reminded us all of salty peanut stew. I stared at the green paint for far too long, because it was wrong. The correct color was purple, so I sat down and cried until my eyes were dry. The final storms are on top of our minds.

librarianproblems:

librarianproblems:

Submitted by Kim