Everything that she speaks comes out jewels and flowers. Keep fucking talking, I say. Her eyes grow wide at the profanity. We giggle as she recites prose and rubies clatter into corners, utters nonsense that turn into pearls. Tries her tongue at french and awkwardly annunciates diamonds. Recipe cards turn into violets. Passages from the classics into roses, articles of erotica into orchids, beatnik poetry into daisies, spell book selections become black poppies. She giggles gardenias, laughs until she cries chrysanthemums. I lay at her feet and roll in riches, sit up and amethysts and opals come unstuck from my skin, rolling under the couch.
"But it's a curse!" she exclaims, and that sets off fresh rounds of laughter and falling percussive treasure punctuated by hyacinth hiccups and crystal clears of the throat.
"It could be worse," I whisper, and snakes slither from the nest of my chest.
Short sharp sticks courtesy of Laura Slack
No comments:
Post a Comment