the space above my ears.

Venus and Her Counterparts

Have this, a fable which opens at the close as the proscenium, painted in its thousandth textured layer, is being wheeled off into the wings.

Headsets are around necks, sleeves rolled up to elbows, the winter sky no longer white.

The bouquets are backstage, some tucked away into the folds of a jacket, some in water, some lying haphazardly upon the vanity table, their obnoxious pigments glowing unnaturally in the yellow light.

Piles of safety pins lie on various miscellaneous surfaces; the sink, the floating shelves, the sweat-slick palm of a hand.

Clothing hangers jingle like bells muted only slightly by all the breathless conversation.

Someone's father has a gun, someone's father does not have a gun, and someone does not have a father, but this does not come between us.

It's so tranquil in this buzzing room and it might be the last time I walk without you.

If this is really the end, I'll leave feeling scraped raw, scooped out like a cantaloupe.

If this is really the end, fuck you and fuck all the people who talk to me like you do.

Burn the stage down and watch the curtains turn to cinders, then burn all the actors like witches at the stake.

Save the prince for last and we'll enjoy the show together like we were supposed to as his cheap plastic crown melts like molten rock on his head.

"I don't care what happens." That makes twenty lines.

I'm still not convinced.