May 22, 2017
By Farha GOLD, Chester, New York
Farha GOLD, Chester, New York
17 articles 0 photos 4 comments

The rain softly licked my hair, with sloppy strokes, trying to wash out the burnt noodles of my head. The noodles unworthy of consumption. And I stared at the doors whose wood seemed to become thinner and thinner as it incessantly heightened itself. Trying to get away from me. My wet stare knocked on this wood trying to reverse whatever cosmic jinx I had set myself up for. And I was static. Like furry pixels in a windable television that no one cared to wind anymore. But they didn't realize that those pixels don't just fall like snow to the ashtray at the bottom of your screen. They press themselves to the glass kissing the warmth where you rested your hand last, tracing out the features of the celebrity you adored. The pixels are where you last found them convenient, hoping with one swift arm motion, you will give them the chance to wipe the dust off of them and come alive again. So I'm still, grateful for your invisible presence which I'm sure was throbbing to cradle my presence. And when you creaked open the big wooden doors, I wonder if maybe you're as fried out as me. Because you looked into my pearly eyes like they were plastic beads sewn into the sockets. And with one swift motion, you swiveled away, and the doors were closed. I disintegrated.

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