I.
He left behind a half pack
of Reds in my glove compartment
from the night before.
I’m 20 years old on
a lunch break.
In film class,
we’re at the scene
in Blue Velvet
when Jeffrey and I are sneaking
into a lounge singer’s apartment,
and now I’m worried that Frank
is going to smell the tobacco
on my hands.
II.
He’s 22 years old and we’re
in his room watching the beginning
of Phantom of the Opera
for the third time.
He’s running his fingers
down my bare back
and it feels like water
that could be holy water,
but we lack the energy
for faith.
I’m on the third full glass of wine.
The chandelier falls,
the mask comes off,
the sun greets that sweet spot
of the windowpane,
and I’m not surprised when we miss
Monday morning.
III.
I’m six years old,
pouring out the pack
of Pabst Blue Ribbon down
the kitchen sink.
On the counter, there’s
a glass half empty
and I rinse it out clean.
The stone white moon,
always watching,
always mocking from the window,
makes shadow crosses down my empty chest,
tells me it’s 3am.
Beside wooden table legs,
I am praying,
with knees pressed to
the floor,
that maybe this will
make somebody
happy.
He left behind a half pack
of Reds in my glove compartment
from the night before.
I’m 20 years old on
a lunch break.
In film class,
we’re at the scene
in Blue Velvet
when Jeffrey and I are sneaking
into a lounge singer’s apartment,
and now I’m worried that Frank
is going to smell the tobacco
on my hands.
II.
He’s 22 years old and we’re
in his room watching the beginning
of Phantom of the Opera
for the third time.
He’s running his fingers
down my bare back
and it feels like water
that could be holy water,
but we lack the energy
for faith.
I’m on the third full glass of wine.
The chandelier falls,
the mask comes off,
the sun greets that sweet spot
of the windowpane,
and I’m not surprised when we miss
Monday morning.
III.
I’m six years old,
pouring out the pack
of Pabst Blue Ribbon down
the kitchen sink.
On the counter, there’s
a glass half empty
and I rinse it out clean.
The stone white moon,
always watching,
always mocking from the window,
makes shadow crosses down my empty chest,
tells me it’s 3am.
Beside wooden table legs,
I am praying,
with knees pressed to
the floor,
that maybe this will
make somebody
happy.
✱✱✱
 Michelle Parasole is a recent college grad who enjoys delving into her own psyche through the many facets of art. When she isn't writing or documenting life with disposable cameras, you can find her painting foxes, singing Fiona Apple songs, or dressing as characters from far away lands of fantasy and wonder. She has an Etsy shop (etsy.com/shop/themedievalmermaid), where she sells her own crafts and artwork. |
