BEFORE BEFORE BEFORE
If you were at a dance party and my name rhymed with overalls, would you court me? And then, after we kissed, would you go to your friends to get high fives? If I only wore orange, would you peel me under the blankets like chewed paper falling from the structure of a paper mache elephant? Here, pretend like you’re an air conditioner. Pretend to pull your dick out at a party. Pretend to get reprimanded. This is what your face looks like when it is hurt. This is what your hands look like when they’re bound. This is what it looks like after your house turned into a building. This is what you look like when you’ve discovered yourself the next morning in a city that smells like wet trash. There are two things I’d like to say to you, but I can’t find the correct anatomy. It is like searching for ghosts in November. It is like breaking all the wood in the house because it won’t light on fire. If you were a carnival, you’d be the medicine show.
Kallie Falandays is the author of Dovetail Down the House (forthcoming from Burnside Review). You can read more of her work in PANK, Salt Hill, Black Warrior Review, and elsewhere. She runs Tell Tell Editing and edits Kenning Journal.
Image credit: Dan Iggers on Flickr
Read more from Cleaver Magazine’s Issue #9.