Thursday, June 17, 2010

By Rebecca L. Morrison

My thoughts are composed

of hummingbirds, like the

way my preset radio station

turns to static when I leave

the city limits. I still make

sense of it, but only just.

And I'd rather not, for I'm

prone to migraines, and I'd

rather not have that aura -

the one that warns me I'll

explode with drear and misery,

and those awful hallucinations I

had when I was young. But the

"chh-schh-chhh" drives me insane

enough to cling, to hope that

clarity might find me. I know I

should change the dial to

something local, but the feedback

lingers in my speakers a touch too

long. I'm indecisive; I won't switch

the station, because my favorite

song airs next and the only other

channel I know is NPR. Real.

Familiar. Too lonely. And before

I can suppress it,

I've got this tear

forming in the outer

corner of my left eye. I'm

too exhausted to fight it.

I could U-turn and find

my way back home,

but you see, I told myself

that you'd had your last

chance, because I'm tired of

blinking you away. And,

can't you see? I'm trying

to find a way to tell you

that I'm through with you,

for the static is imprecise

and deafening. The static

has torn my shell to shreds.

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