The inside of me
is ballerina pink, and tastes either of Barbie shoes or stained linen – I’m not sure which. The strainer in the sink contains remnants of last night’s beets, and the smell is starting to choke up the dog and wither the succulent leaves hanging on the windowsill above it. When I tell you my insides feel soft, hard-pressed for the time to build themselves up, you get a look on your face like you’re not sure who I am. It’s me, remember, who took who inside to let you batter the pink of me. It’s me, remember, who strained beets over a flame for you. The red wine spilling over from my lips sweetens in the dog’s mouth as he laps it from the linoleum. In the evening, we hear the clock ticking louder and more red than usual. I go to bed unclean and with the dishes undone, dreaming of the scent of strawberries while it begins to snow.
By Mariel Fechik
Mariel Fechik is a 22 year old Chicagoan with a bachelor’s degree she isn’t using very well. She sings in a band called Church Booty and writes poetry that she gives up on and then comes back to in the end. Her work has been published in The Black Napkin, Phosphene Literary Journal, The Stardust Gazette, and Montage Arts Journal.