Poem: I Suppose You Want to Ask Me What Happened to My Head


Unless, of course, all you see is

a too small and oddly shaped

appendage to my hips, soft and

padded like lips

Ships of chills scrape

from my toes to elbows

which chills made my

shoes too tight and

hats too small walked

around today like a lumpy

balloon, whistling love

songs cynically

An ugly bird in a sweater

from the Gap sang back

to me, and I cried. It sank its

mini straw from the coffeeshop

into my scalp and lifted me—

I ran for the

steeple. The bird didn’t

like this one—snake on front sign.

The minister there

covered people in sheets,

hands grazed calves invisibly as

they pulled on white like water when

suddenly the Word, the aptly named

Rock of Salvation,

introduced itself to my

occipital bone, unraveled

fibers that have been sewn

for twenty-one years

I wake up here in

black, in bed, find wood

splinters in my head, hydrangeas

long dead, breasts overfed.

By Ella

I am an undergraduate junior studying creative writing. I am interested in short fiction, poetry, creative nonfiction and professional writing.

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