Monday, February 14, 2011
Valentine’s Day roosts at my doorstep on an empty concrete slab where my front door freely swings over sandy cement. Chocolate candy wrappers wisp against each other in my hand. The teeth hurt. My eyes stare funny and dead, two hard candies, butterscotch. The years stole the cinnamon from them. Love. An orgy of lust. The healing hands of Jesus. Red. Red. Red. Crinkled red. Cardboard red. Red tissue paper. Blood red. Sweet, crimson red. Pink girls begging for the red. Girls spend fortunes on baking powder, baker’s chocolate squares, brown sugar, cocoa, flour—only to use them once. They leave me and my home. All that remains are these vials, boxes, and canisters of poison. I hold a tiny, cold glass bottle of vanilla extract in my hand. I try to read what it is used for. I walk to the door and put on the chain lock.