She holds a rose between two fingers. A fake rose, but neither of them seem to care. She wears sunglasses even though they’re inside. They’re white and red and a Christmas present. She wears a dress she bought at Dillards for six dollars. Only the top half, covered in white sequins she complained about the whole night, is visible She wears an earring that hooks to the side of her ear. She calls it a cuff. She wears a watch she got for her birthday that she only takes off to shower or sleep. She has an X on her hand, which says she’s not allowed to drink. She has a smile on her face, which says she has been drinking. She has straight hair, which she made with a flat iron several hours ago. She has tanned skin from the father she never met, the one she wants to punch in the trachea. She has her arm wrapped around a person, a person in a black dress with hair that the person calls blonde but she calls brown. She has a person with a tattoo on her arm. She has a person who wears glasses that are too big for their face. She has a person who is kissing the edge of her jaw. She has a person beside her.
Prompt from my Creative Nonfiction Class: Describe a picture, only what you can see within the frame.
I didn’t read the warning,
in fact, I kinda forgot it was there,
and I microwaved my head.
My brain exploded.
It’s still squeezing out my nose
and ear canals
three hours later.
I think I may have irradiated my eyeballs too.
I’m seeing things
like unicorns and rainbows
and warning signs.
In fact, I think I’m beginning to see sound.
I suppose I should’ve read
the instructions on the bottom of the coffee cup
and not singed my eyebrows
or given myself brain cancer
and superhero powers.
I suppose I should’ve paid attention.
I write lists of adjectives in an attempt to describe the color of the wood of the kitchen table when the afternoon sun hits it just before dinner. I write word after word, noun after noun. I write letters on pages, filling more notebooks than anyone has hopes of ever fully reading. I write because I cannot articulate the world through any other means. I write because my tongue does not have fingers with which I could describe the tilt of a woman’s chin when she is bent over an oil painting. I write phrases and idioms and clichés across the whiteboards of my classrooms, trying to make sense of how a scribble in black ink could carry such meaning. I write poems about the way the sand feels between my teeth when I swallow seawater accidently at the beach. I write because though the grains of sand may be stuck in my gums no one else can see them. I write to bring the invisible into the visible. I write when I cannot see. I write when I can see too much.
Inspired by Terry Tempest William‘s Essay “Why I Write.”
- His ex wife’s phone number
- The father’s day card his ten year old son made him
- His plumbing license
Things my father doesn’t post on his fridge:
- Pictures of his daughter
Micro essay for my CNF class.
I’m sorry I didn’t know that blanket doesn’t go on the floor
I’m sorry I didn’t put the cap back on the pen
I’m sorry I folded your shirts wrong
I’m sorry I closed the door too slow
I’m sorry I never put my toothbrush in the right place
I’m sorry I didn’t make your pasta right
I’m sorry I wear my socks two or three days in a row
I’m sorry I used the wrong nail clippers
I’m sorry I borrowed your coat
I’m sorry I left my clothes on the floor
I’m sorry I sat in the seat not facing the entrance
I’m sorry I used your hairbrush without asking
I’m sorry I washed your ears with soap
I’m sorry I use highlighters the wrong way
I’m sorry I am not doing better
I’m sorry I am wrong so often
I’m sorry I don’t understand all the time
I’m sorry I don’t ask more questions
I’m sorry I don’t say I love you more often.