Disposable

swingWhen I tell her,

“Friend, I can’t call you that anymore. You’re toxic and I’m drowning in open water,”

I imagine her toes disappearing into her fuzzy bath mat, her fingers curled around a razor, cursing how they’re both disposable.

I imagine her blood sticking to her forearms, a welcoming sign of life, a guarantee that she is at least functional and fruitful in something. 

With each violent rub of her veins, her temper transforms into a fallen, shattered, tainted tranquility.

I imagine her shaded by a charcoal death wish, longing for the days when getting turnt and peeing together at house parties earned her the title of friend, before the hearth cooled into nothing more than stone.


Welcome to Microvember, my take on NaBloPoMo. Each day this month I’ll be posting microfiction, short vignettes, or poetry, accompanied by photography. See more Microvember posts here

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