by Abbie Doll

tell me when || did we become || this utterly worn & weary couch || stamped with still-s(t)inging snippets of our foundation— || our battlefield past || conversations, forever f a d i n g || illegible in memory || yet ink somehow still seeping || out the pores of this dilapidated fabric we continue to share || all the spills we thought would drip-dry || all those bombastic arguments || we assumed wouldn’t stain the satin || tell me why || everything sultry seems destined to sour || why everything new || seems doomed to ruin || is there no preservation of the pristine? || can’t remember the last time || things felt comfortable || the last time || we furnished each other || hell, hope the coffin’s cozier than this || ‘cause lately || can’t help but feel like || i’ve become the woman in the wall || -paper || —cigarette-stained & brown-mustard yellow || with dancing hieroglyphs winking back || boasting on & on || with their fairy-tale pleas || lookee here, lookee here! || we’re free, we’re free! || but no not me. || i’m just an echo of || unseen & unheard || (unseen & unheard) || ((unseen & unheard)) || i say repeatedly || though i know || you’re still || not listening || ‘cause your attention span is dead-skin thin || & there’s never (been) || enough || can’t you see how famished i am? || look at me— || over here becoming || the textbook image of emaciated || can’t you see the cramps in my toes? || the chipped nails & scars? || no? || well, how ‘bout my bloomin’ bunion || you’ve got to see that. || we’ve grown so d(r)eadfully distant, you & me… || baby can’t you see || all this misery afoot? || can’t help but wonder || if this long-john leg o’ mine || pardon the holes, dear || will ever be tied || to a body again || ever be wrapped || ‘round yours again || as i tiptoe tread || down these ever-bl(e)ackening steps || thinkin’ how we slipped || from trying to impress to coal-miner soiled || can’t help but count || each patch of dirt || all the while being mesmerized by || the jagged angles || of my black-cat || shadow— || this funky feline slinkin’ about || sometimes tethered, sometimes not || pussyfootin’ around || just like you always did.

Abbie Doll is a writer residing in Columbus, OH, with an MFA from Lindenwood University and is a Fiction Editor at Identity Theory. Her work has been featured in Door Is a Jar Magazine, 3:AM Magazine, and Pinch Journal Online, among others; it has also been longlisted for The Wigleaf Top 50 and nominated for The Best Small Fictions, Best Microfiction, and the Pushcart Prize. Connect on socials @AbbieDollWrites.