Drawers of a memory’s bones,

sea shell geodes, sparkling, but not for us,

and certainly not to please you.

A well oiled rainbow dancing up a horses woven neck,

trying to dig to you, dig to find treasures,

to rebury parts of her for you to find along your path.

Furred minerals, waxy skinned rocks,

carve flesh away to strip-mine her hurts.

Stroke the pet sphinx till she purrs you truths,

and remember,

she used to be a little girl, too.

Now she’s made of plastic pony bodies, nylon hair,

diary pages and vellum wings.

She’ll claw at you and dig, burrow in your chest,

lock herself in your linty drawers,

swallow the key and scrape at your walls

with nails of opal and cheap glitter.

You’ve grown lean and the edges you seek are now in your own face,

sharpened by acetone winds.

Its face was the used page of a diary,

all bleeding ink and bent corners.

Voice like a scratched record,

but with no one to listen to it.

A dried ink pen for a spine,

all chewed up brittle plastic.

With a brass locket for a heart,

hung on tangled chain and empty of sentiment.

It peered at me with mica-flake eyes,

squinting into fluorescent light.

I paid it with a copper penny to suckle,

closed the drawer to no complaint.

My memory smelled like cedar and lint,

felt like a knuckle in the eye.

Heavy painted doors line the walks, like lids of a little girls’ jewelry box.

If you lift them a memory of music might spill out. Or, maybe, probably the echos of someone’s parents fighting.

Smoked glass panes, peeling paint and antique molding.

A small white dog is whining. A lot of small white dogs are crying.

Velveteen seats, car exhaust flocked coffee tables, your grandmother’s couch encased in plastic.

Must and dust, old perfume and aspirin.

Buttermint smoothed marble stoops for waiting. And for smoking.

Mostly for smoking.

Sun faded Mary’s peer out of living room windows and frown at the spent lotto ticket leaf fall.

Originally published at https://vocal.media.

Expectations

When do we lose the ability to play pretend? Where is that moment we realize magic isn’t real? Does the weight of reality and eventual adulthood dim the light of all our play? Do we experience regret for the loss of our unmediated imagination and attempt to will it back?

A flicking tail, yawn all teeth and treasures pressed against a warm belly, those childish secrets and vision engines of glass and glitter.

I loved you, it purred while licking a paw and looking past you to the horizon.

Was it speaking to you or to the end of the day?

Hisses amongst forbidden kisses in the shade, tall grasses rustle…

Flies bite.

Thorns tear.

Violent eyed with a forked tongue and acrylic claws trace your edges.

You will be the one to shatter, but you long to cut yourself on its edges, those razor sharp boundaries

It is a Sphinx of your misdeeds. A promise you broke like a bone, the secret that was better kept.

Originally published at https://vocal.media.

Elizabeth Virginia Levesque

I am a studio artist, designer and secret writer. You can find more of my artwork at my portfolio site, Lizzelizzel.com.

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