Vomit, Take Two

I.

Granola doesn't taste quite the same
slathered in a pumpkin sweet blanket,
but something's missing
and water won't fill up the hole.
Drink a liter or two a day, but you'll only
drown in your own light.
Water leaves, granola falls away,
and at the end, I still have this sickly sweet feeling
that I'm losing air, and you're taking it away.


II.

Can I braid your hair? Left over right over left,
and I'll practice on a friendship bracelet,
make sure I'll get it just right.
Always going down, never bringing up. Never learned
to show my face to the sun, and your hair
is so shiny in the light.
It pours down into the holes between braids
and maybe gets lost or trickles down
to the hairband.
I don't wash my face yet,
but you do. It's matte. Mine shines,
but it's not from inside like you.

III.

I want to sit in the living room with you
and feel the scratchy throw blanket behind us,
but not when we lean forward to get food.
I want the light to be dim,
just like it always is in the house --
never enough to see clearly, makes me want
to go outside and run and jump.
But you're inside, together.
A sandwich I made for you,
on a napkin we'll burn together later,
and though you hardly look at me because
the television is on and it's House again,
I know you'll turn to me on commercial
and kiss me, and maybe share some mustard.


IV.

Stacked in corners, half full,
spilling over with what we once cherished.
Yours labeled with the initials
that I once traced over my notebook: TR,
TR, TR, TR, TR, over and over, I took your R.
But now the piano's yours so I can keep
the wardrobe and the dining room table.

Do you remember our Valentine's brunch?
The only brunch we were together --
eggs that ran water onto the plate
and made the toast soggy, but the bacon
was burnt and crumbled to the touch.
But you smiled and I wasn't hungry anymore,
because I felt full and satisfied knowing that
for just that moment, that morning,
I could make you happy.

Now where will the cardboard boxes go?
You haven't told me who she is.
I haven't told you who he is, either, but my
boxes won't go to him. I'm leaving him, too.
I figure the sweaters and your smile
would clog up his life too much and make us sigh and drown.
I promise I won't try to find your address,
just don't forget to clean the crumbs from your toaster.

Vomit

stuff from picture prompts people sent me from mystery google. um. yes.

I.

We always loved looking at pictures of other people, Ferris and I. She had a photographic memory, and I had a guitar and a voice, and we brought them to life in the only way we knew how.

Sometimes, I wondered how she could cope with having so many faces floating around in her head. Did she organize them? Old men with yellowed eyes -- did they take up a separate floor from the babies we saw, the toddlers with their innocent smiles?

We named them on whims. And we had favorites, like Jesse Webster. He was a broody-looking guy with curly black hair and a pair of brown eyes that twinkled even in a yearbook. We decided his girlfriend was a gothic girl who cut herself and that the only way he ever felt useful was by saving her from herself. She was using him. We'd yet to find a picture of her, though. When we wrote a song about Jesse, we called her Patrice. The song was a little death-metal and a little pop. Jesse probably liked pop.

Pictures of ourselves were weird things, though. We always took it upon ourselves to make personalities for the faces we looked at. When Ferris looked at herself, though, she said she found someone completely different than who she was. She said she was scared of the picture Ferris -- like there was a power harbored in the paper that she couldn't recognize in her own body.

When she took her own life, I wondered if it was her or the other Ferris.

II.

"I didn't know that dogs got cancer, too," said Emilia.
"Of course they do, honey. We just don't know as much about it."
"But I don't want Fluffy to die."
"I don't want Fluffy to die either. That's why we have to take him to the vet. The doctor can help him."
"I don't think that the doctor will help him."
"The doctor will be able to see the bump, baby, and test it, and see what we can do."
"What if the doctor can't see the bump?"
"Well, if there's a bump the doctor can't see, then he can't help Fluffy and he'll just stay home with us until he can't stay with us anymore." Emilia's mom patted her shoulder and then stood up from the chair, moving Emilia to her own chair.
"I'm going to call daddy, okay?"
"Okay." Emilia looked down at her dog as her mother left the room. Fluffy's left eye was pressured into being half closed by a tumor that had been growing in size for about a month.
"Fluffy, we're best friends, so I'm going to save you." Emilia went to the cupboard and pulled a paper bag out. She put it over the dog's head.
"Now the doctor will let you stay with me forever," she said, and wrapped her arms around the dog's golden furry body.

III.

"Oh man, oh man," said Bridgette.
"What?" Alex asked, dropping the nerf gun to let it hang at his side.
"You look super badass in this picture," she said, turning the digital camera so he could see. All Alex saw was himself. He looked slightly bored. His Nerf Gun was cool. But Bridgette's smile told him there was another story hiding in the picture that he just couldn't see.
"What are you talking about?"
"You look, minus the background and the out-of-period props, like you probably commanded a fucking pirate ship or something."
"You're crazy."
"Seriously. You know, I love that we hang out and everything, and you're super fun, but would it kill you to tell me about your past lives as a raging pirate? I swear, I'd be your wench."
Alex looked at Bridgette's freckles as she spoke, trying to avoid the whirlpool charm of her blue eyes or the net of her silky red hair.
"I just can't provide any solid numbers. I lost track of the number of people I murdered when my belt got swept away into the ocean after I fucked a few of my wenches dry."
"Marry me," said Bridgette.

IV.

"I like sandwiches."
"Make me a sandwich, bitch."
"I said I liked them first, so make ME one, you chauvinist pig."
"Stubborn bitch," said Claude. Claire laughed and kicked him in the shin.
"Wanna go to Subway?" she asked. He shrugged, and she headed out the door to the car. Claude followed, dragging their coats behind. Claire always forgot her coat.
"Got my coat?" she called back as she reached the snow-covered car and felt the chill of the January wind.
"Yeah, I got your fucking coat," said Claude.

Inside the car was still cold, but the heater nearly drowned out the conversation as it worked as hard as it could to save the couple from freezing to death.
"You know what else I like?" said Claire.
"Kinky sex?" asked Claude.
"Babies. I think if I could just have a sandwich and a baby, I could die happy."
"I could help with that," said Claude, wiggling his eyebrows in an attempt to seduce Claire. She gave him a look that said 'you wish', and then said,
"Like I'd ever want to actually HAVE a baby rip through my vagina. I think I'd die. Then I wouldn't live to enjoy the baby, so I'd die unhappy with only a sandwich. I mean. I probably just want to kidnap one. Do you think that's okay?"
"If the mom didn't want it, I guess..."
"But like, then it wouldn't be a cute baby. I want a cute baby, and mom's always want cute babies, so they'd like their baby."
"If there's a baby at Subway, do you want to steal it?"
"Let's totally steal it."
"What kind of sandwich are you getting?"
"Tuna."