--IT’S JUST A SILLY PHASE I’M GOING THROUGH

The Nylon Curtain

You don’t need more reminders of what’s been broken, of the moon floating in a jar of formaldehyde, or the screams of those butterflies at night.  So, you chew the nylon curtain again, the wires and gristle turning pulpy.  Slivers pierce your tongue, splinters stab your throat.  Overhead a slack cord hangs near a naked bulb in the barren garage where you taught yourself how to box.  One step and you’re up on the chair, eye to eye with the speed bag that dangles in the corner like a too-big pedant or a penance no one should have to bear.