CLOTHES PIN

Can you hear me? You can’t, you won’t. Will anyone open up their calendars, look around their “to-do” list, to make a few minutes to possibly listen? Even then, you won’t have time to reply. You must go back to work, your life, your business.

You make time for spontaneous adventure, that burns a hole in your pocket. When noticing me is free. I’m closed eyed, open mouthed and I’m gasping, gasping for the air you could give me. Maybe I’m missing the point; The 3-point jump shot of a “shut the hell up”.

Will you listen? Will you? Or you? Or you. You can’t, you won’t. Give me your phone number, so I can sigh at the absence of a silent phone. Just sitting, waiting, for it to be someone on the other end of the line. Would I even speak? Will I just nod away at myself in the mirror, all red and streaked from the 4-o clock pity party in bathroom stall #1, call 1(800) for a reservation.

Do you see the traced-out map on my arm, that could lead you to understanding why it’s so easy to put a cigarette to your lips after just 24 hours ago you promised to stop killing yourself?

My lips are sewn shut with the clothes pins I measure myselfwith; the tight-fitting shirt wrapped around my neck, rattling the chains of disappointment and disgust. Am I damaged goods, with a red ink stamp on thecorner reading, “Too fragile for life?”

“Going once, going twice…anyone? No one? You? Or you? Or you.”

No thank you, thanks anyway. I’ll pass on this beat up body to the next sucker, reading self-help books hoping for a change.

“Take it easy”, “One day at a time”.

Pass that bill, turn that table, win the lottery and steal your girl. Live the happily ever after, while the credits roll to my screenplay, to an empty theater room, everyone too busy deciding what to eatfor lunch.

They know there is something disturbing inside of you. They see it in your dead-beat dad eyes. They grow sick of my stench and walk away once more, to wash away the paint splatters I throw with my broken bones for hands.

“You call yourself an artist”; I write in notebooks made from trees, cut down in victory over the triumph of a species going extinct.

When I get the lonely will to hear my own voice, you wrap me in tissue paper, what someone would call a gift. “Too fragile for life,” the red stamp bleeds. This is no gift.

I am quiet, little.

A clothes pin hanging among a row of hanging clothes.

By the Author: Megaroni

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