a girl was flat on the stairs, thighs out, skirt rucked, convulsing. a boy hovered over her on the phone. not my problem, i chanted to myself as i slid through the ticket gate, raked my eyes over ten kinds of instant miso soup, ate my quick dinner, brushed my teeth and slid into my soft bed.
i still remember how her straight black bangs fanned out perfectly over her forehead, her porcelain skin glowing with the soft pink flush of a cherry blossom’s petal. her serene expression as the soul punched its way out of her chest again and again.
Little one, stitching shoes all for thanks and a bowl of warm milk, stitching, stitching, but never seen, footsteps in the cupboard
a girl was flat on the stairs, thighs out, skirt rucked, convulsing. a boy hovered over her on the phone. not my problem, i chanted to myself as i slid through the ticket gate, raked my eyes over ten kinds of instant miso soup, ate my quick dinner, brushed my teeth and slid into my soft bed.
i still remember how her straight black bangs fanned out perfectly over her forehead, her porcelain skin glowing with the soft pink flush of a cherry blossom’s petal. her serene expression as the soul punched its way out of her chest again and again.
Its the little people who help Santa. They have pointed ears and shoes that curll upward.