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Coming Down from Mars

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Kaleidoscope Margot tells me to stay where I am. I’m not on Earth right now, and the diamonds in my eyes are turning my vision into broken fragments of a puzzle that’s upside down and inside out. I think I’m on Mars. She tells me she’ll build a ladder between the two planets. 
Kaleidoscope Margot tells me to write poetical dysmorphic anagrams, but my right hand is bruised from the day I fought a monster built out of red rocks and diamond dust up here on Mars. Besides, her three words are nothing more than chewed-up poetry and pointless dialogue.
Kaleidoscope Margot tells me to listen to the things my sugar-sweet hummingbird boyfriend says. “That girl’s magic.”
“Have you seen the way her shoulder-blade pops back when she relaxes? Have you seen her fly?”
“She tastes like lava.”
Kaleidoscope Margot tells me my sugar-sweet hummingbird boyfriend on Earth doesn’t believe in Quantum Theory. I tell her I’m too pretty to know what she’s talking about.
Kaleidoscope Margot builds a ladder. I think I’m on Earth now.
Kaleidoscope Margot tells me that when I dance around my room, my body bends and reflects expensive colors on the walls like light through a prism. My feet are blistered but I taste opium on my tongue. It’s an addicting rush that turns to synesthesia and I wonder if Kaleidoscope Margot has ever tasted sapphire blue. Honeyed addiction feeds me energy to spin on feathery pink summer days until my mouth floods with the opium taste and that’s when my sugar-sweet hummingbird boyfriend drawls, “Have you seen her fly?”
Kaleidoscope Margot tells me if we take the scarlet brick on this cul-de-sac house and turn it to powder, it’ll look like Mars and I can feel at home. I get scared that by the time we’ve covered the ground, there will be no walls left of the house, and she gets angry that I don’t appreciate the way she tries for me. I think maybe I should just adapt.
Kaleidoscope Margot gossips about the tall girls who burst with confetti from their rib cages. She tells me she’s afraid I’m not pretty enough for the boy I love because he keeps catching confetti like LSD slips that dissolve on the tip of his tongue. I tell her I’m not in love.
Kaleidoscope Margot tells me there’s a bitter-sweet boy drinking orange crush at this party who has a crush on me. She tells me I should know he cures, he sews up broken hearts with plant stems. The stitches are as pretty as scars can be. They photosynthesize until his lucky girl’s skin crystallizes with sugar. Bitter-sweet boy builds sugar-sweet girl. Now she’s too similar to keep loving her hummingbird boyfriend.
Kaleidoscope Margot tells me orange crush boy lights flowers from the end with the petals and smokes them like drugged-up honeysuckle. She says he says “she loves me, she loves me not.” I tell her that she needs to get off her high, and I tell her that I won’t fall in love.
Kaleidoscope Margot tells me lucky girls will cry, and girls with diamonds in their eyes will be awarded titles by v-shaped red snake tongues and confetti girls. Slut. She tells me it’s nothing to cry about.
Kaleidoscope Margot lets me fall asleep on her shoulder and tells me I look like a fairy in that light blue dress. I was wearing it when I met the boy who would cure me and then ruin me. She says that on Mars, I wouldn’t have talked to a boy who had kissed so many confetti girls that his mouth was exploding with color, a boy who felt like home until he fixed you. She tells me it’s her fault, but she doesn’t apologize.
Kaleidoscope Margot builds me a planet. I don’t want this planet.
Kaleidoscope Margot holds my hand because I’m crying diamonds. She tells me I’m stubborn and I should have listened to the things my sugar-sweet hummingbird boyfriend said, but I don’t want to taste like lava. Her sympathetic apathy means I’m sobbing like a child curled up in her lap, wishing my tears tasted like saltwater and not diamonds, and wishing my body didn’t taste like lava. I don’t want to taste like lava. I don’t want to fly.
Kaleidoscope Margot compliments my shrinking self. She thinks hip bones are wishbones and loves the way mine dig through my skin from the inside out. She tries to make a wish, and when she kisses my hip, it bruises indigo and gold.
Kaleidoscope Margot tells me my future. Growing thin isn’t the same as growing tall, and swallowing confetti won’t make me beautiful. Kaleidoscope Margot misreads my loss of appetite and the absence of my tongue down soda-flavored throats, but I don’t feel inclined to correct her.
Kaleidoscope Margot thinks I’m too human.
Kaleidoscope Margot tells me I should not be trusted with delicate objects. My skin is too breakable and glass flower vases are too thin. She tells me I need to cover my scratches with bandages because there is already too much red on Mars.
I tell Kaleidoscope Margot that I want to stop seeing the world through this chaotic and shattered kaleidoscope-colored perspective, with diamonds in my eyes and the tastes of bird food and opium and orange crush and poison all on my tongue.
Margot just looks at me.






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