Madam-Medusa

I am a trouble so I've heard. A troubling, troubled trouble. I swim in a big circle, gasping and flailing paddling desperately against the tidal waves of a fishbowl working an open mouth, gasping in worry at the sharks holding fishing poles with wide toothy smiles the fish aren't biting much, so I've heard. I am not a fluffy kitty I do not purr, I will not let you pet me. I can not smooth my hair, I can not force mystery into a grin. I can not saunter or prowl or even really hiss A troubling, troubled trouble. vacant eyes and pursed lips pressed against glass humming the same three tunes because I can't remember more of the song lighting the oven, burning the cookies, filling the air with worry baking lessons from Sylvia Plath! I am not a Martha Stewart. I will not pose, I will not knead. I can not sing. I can not make a fluffy souffle, I can barely tremble my way through turning the gas on. The soft stuff goes in, the heat and the pressure and the fire fire fire still gasping and

My favorite memory so far of us Its not the time you cried when I was sick or when you gave me Christmas pearls. isn't the time you kissed me in the snow or the time you held my hairbrush and proceeded to sing. It's when you bit your lip and tried not to cuss even as I muttered that you were an ass, a prick as you sunk your hands into my messy morning curls and told me I was perfect, did I know? Perfect..just as I was.. but please try to change everything. Everything

I started with the bookshelves, dusting away every argument that found a tear stained face hiding behind a hard bound copy of Othello. From there I swept the corners of every room, polished the window panes until the sun cheerily smiled through. I opened the doors and let the deep sighs of the house out, and the tentative spring chill in. The mice were evicted, the spiders can stay. The smell of lemon oil glossed on the cheap wooden floors do nothing to distract from the very distinct feeling of licking plywood and getting a mouthful of splinters. In retrospect, perhaps trying to root flowers from broken sticks wasn't the best of ideas. I used to love the strange taste of whiskey and tobacco on your lips. These days I just gag on the cork and ashes. You used to tell me I tasted like cloves and hot tea with just a little too much cream in it. Isn't that basically the flavor map of a good smoked chinese cuppa? I think in this house of mismatched smells and little crystal whatnots

My eyes are people eaters. Devouring flesh and shadows and light. My eyes are hungry for sweet frowns, the concentrated crease between furrowed brows and the glee shining behind secret glances My eyes itch sighing deeply between nights prickly with salty anger, lashes heavy and still so ravenous. My eyes feed on silvery scars and soft gooseflesh behind a glass lens barrier Protecting them from the burn of my people eaters.