Avant Guard Anxieties - 12th June 2015
Cherry pits line her insides
Because she chooses to ignore her mothers advice
That swallowing pits is detrimental
Her facial expressions remain constant
Fearful of the wind changing direction
And being paralyzed with a face like the wicked witch of the west
She lives with locks on all doors
Hiding the keys in a safe
Daggers decorate her purse
Seeking some femininity in her lush, red lipstick
The acronym ICE stands as a precaution before her mother’s and sister’s names
In her shiny, well kept iPhone
Urgent care centers, women’s clinics and her childhood pediatrician’s details
her speed dial
Voices jump up and down in her head
And exclude natural reassurance
Like little girls who refer to their primary school games as “3 person ones only”
She presses eight buttons in a lift
And rips out eight pieces of her hair every eight days
Her skin fools magpies with its shininess, which comes from ample amounts of disinfectant
The deluded birds lie under her couch
Hidden from sight
Her lesser nightmares consist of unsupervised babies in hot cars
And her most competent doctors clinging to a wing of an old airplane
Her life is a venus fly trap which lives on a diet of organs made up of butterflies, memories of unclean hands, her parents words and
hoarded copies of the International Herald Tribune.
