Plastic mixing bowl
Once home to cute pewter game pieces,
Now occupied by a broken doll stand.
I harbor the old memories that are
Grounded by paper and my lover’s pen
I clutch them to my chest,
Try to push them through to the other side
Of my rib cage, my organic box.
Be free,
Be away from here little memories!
I rub the dry skin on my arm
Flakes fly like fish food landing
To aquarium water.
My face is a neglected in-ground
Swimming pool-
Fear ripples across the surface
In synchronized pulses while
White swimsuited Jealousy
Backstrokes leisurely by
Relaxed, reassured
That I am to be all alone-
Shifting aimlessly
In the plastic mixing bowl.
-SaintJoan-