Out of reach—from boney fingers, sockets wormy, deathbreath seeping through coffee-teeth; from zombies who want to smother dreams. I’m thankful you won’t allow them, protect me instead. I grasp at string, hold on—knuckles ashen, fingers red—leave everything for a ride with you. You desire to go higher, we soar over peaks and hollows, across the deep.
It doesn’t last.
You admit your balloons never held promises, that you never trusted me not to pop them; red, yellow, blue like your eyes. No longer am I weightless to your helium love. You tug at the ribbon around my fingers. I won’t let go, I vow, but you sever the string with a blade called silence. You even snip my orgasm finger. I bleed.
To the dirt I fall, red clay stains my dress, my semi-virgin heart that won’t come clean in the wash. I wallow there a week, holding curly ribbons attached to nothing. You’re not returning. Starving zombies are my company.
I walk with them, one of them; flaking skin, cataract lenses under shriveled lids. I have no organ thumping, pumping blood to your favorite spot. I’m wrapped in gauze, stiff legs marching, carrying me through mundane carpool, grocery shopping, three mile jogs. Sometimes, you pass over, hover close enough to make me reach for you like the fool I am/was/can be. Your rainbow balloons are tied with new string, and another holds them, twisting curly ribbon between her fingers.
Amy Abig
Amy Abig resides in North Carolina. She is a mother to three and a wife to one; a friend to many; a daughter, a sister and forever the baby of the family. This is Amy’s second appearance in Word Riot.
