Not Your Type of Alone
The lonely girl eats a cookie alone. Crumbs matter not at all for no one shall punish her. A spiral appears in front of her and laughs at her bangs. It snaps and cracks, recedes, unknown origin. Mother, nurse call – it’s another day and another day means ghost. Good ghost today; bad was yesterday, so good today. Good ghost means cookies and bric brac, crafts and paper mache. Bad ghost, well, better not to relay. But black and rest and closet and payment and birds wings rats, more later. The lonely girl goes to the bathroom. Heats up wall and burns it to the ground. Eyes. This is, of course, the reason for lonely. Throat of volcano exposed when flash floods washed the gulch away. In the western sky. Make thrice the daily gift of witch visit; to bleed the artery, to restore the back room for experimentation. Mother, nurse call. It’s lunch. She goes to the bathroom - the bowl is filled with redness. Not lava. Blood is funny how it stains things which were once white and virginal - who is it? By and bye the day goes along and she wishes to know an outcome. Homework aside it’s the experimentation which interests her mind. How will the pairings go. Hims and hers. Penises she got to see turned to soup in the mix of chemicals the witch leaves for her learning...So interesting. Vagina only for the lava bestowed as gift upon she. Well, dinner I guess, so she goes to the bathroom and it’s nothing left but white space all around. Imagine what tomorrow will bring - the ghost, bad one, mother, nurse call. It’s black and red it’s burning and this is not your type of alone.