i don't know where i'm going but im on my way

    I wake with no resistance, fully nourished from my dreamland of mouse circus. All but my lightest of naps take place in the stockroom, or else I’d be awoken constantly by hands and murmured coos. The stockroom was where they expected me anyways, senses ready for the task at hand. Rats were fast but I was faster. I did a good job and they knew it. Outside the boxes of the stockroom, there was the Cavern of the Five Senses. Red balls bobbing on the ceiling, shelves of giant crisps, plastic crinkles, cardboard boxes of every color of the rainbow. Fruits and vegetables and cloth and rows of shiny metal obelisks that made a hiss when a person yanked its tab. And my favorites, cold fish and meat that was sanctioned to me at the end of the day. People would exchange these goods for green rustles and shiny coins. Boss would say “toodollerandfisevendefysens” and they’d smack down the rustles and coins. A white rustle would come out of the black box and Boss would rip it and hand it to the people. If I was present, the people would scratch my chin and run my hand down my back. I liked it better when they scratched my tummy. I don’t know what prompted them to do this, and why they would speak and make sounds while they did, but it felt nice. I would recognize the hands that came in often. There was Boss of course, and woman Boss and the small Bosses. There was a man who smelled of oil and laundry, who always left with a big zsshhooom. There was the Woman who stomped above the cavern at night. There was an old woman with soft hands that never stayed still. Aside from work, life was slow and easy. One day in the stockroom there was a particularly putrid little mouse. He carried a stick and was munching on a blueberry. He was smart enough to run out into the cavern, where gentle hands would distract me from his trail. I showed no cruelty to his little mouse soul when I finally caught him. Work is work, and we all fight to survive.

red dear read deer

    If you have a place with a balcony, contact me. I must see it. I must stand on your balcony. I like driving my moped to the store. I like Soccer on the TV. I like Coors Banquet. I like my laundry fresh out the dryer. I like to hang it on the balcony. I like to hang out on the balcony. I like the feeling of my feet on the asphalt. I like a fresh orange on a warm day. I like the smell of the hand soap at the pharmacy. When you look at the ground from the balcony it is like one flat shape. Does your balcony have shiny railings? I like driving my moped really fast. I like when there's squirrels at the park. I like my dinner served on a tray. I like striped shirts. I like putting lemon slices in my water. Do not contact me about a fire escape. I am not interested in that. I am only interested in a balcony. Please, if you have one contact me. House with a balcony. Apartment with a balcony. I have no desire to hear about it only see it. Please, kindly let me know.

IN THE NERVOUS LIGHT OF SUNDAY

    I live above the small Chinese owned market in Gravesend. The owner has been leasing it to me for $900 a month the past four years. I’ve befriended their small cat, a tabby with a deep love of belly rubs. The store is never not full of cakes and treats, fresh produce and seafood, and cheap trinkets. Every square inch is covered, insulation for the conversation and exchanges always happening inside. A stark contrast from my barren walls. My place is one in which I can be dull in peace, a real Plain-Jane-Doe. I do not have a single nook or shelf. All my belongings could fit in my tweed lined traveling trunk. I threw most everything out when I moved out of Manhattan. I like to eat the same thing for dinner everyday. It takes about two months for it to get old. I'm on my seventh week of chicken parm.

    I was never very good at starving myself. It came naturally to most girls at St. Angelica’s when they turned fourteen, the same year girls who had been deemed mediocre would disappear with no word in advance. One jab of the abdomen during barre was all it took. A girl you've known since you were eight stops eating cheese and you notice. You can’t share Yumikos if you’re one size bigger. You’ll stick out like a sore thumb in the mirror. We have the same lunch break, we observe each other’s meals like bony hawks. I did it of course. How couldn’t I? Angelica’s was survival of the fittest. Your fate would be handed to you on a platter at eighteen. Not everyone can be a star.

    I’ve taken up writing letters, though most people I know have begged me to just email or call. I like to imagine the post office giving them to a carrier pigeon. I once met a real-life one, on an early family trip to Colorado. His claws dug gently into my adolescent hands. I watched him fly away, a tubed bracelet fastened on his ankle, knowing exactly where he is meant to go.