Xanadu
 

I travel the world, yet I see nothing but glimpses. I’m left with teeth marks from carelessness. I’m covered in a powdery chemical and my cold metal core is protected by a dented, scratched, red plastic shell. I breathe life into one, but I run out of life myself. I wait for the next inhaler to replace me. All I do is give. All any of us do is give. I only bestow my breath so another can safely jog a lap. Our lives are put on a counter. A little plastic screen showing how m

I sit slumped against your pillows, fur faded, one eye wiser than the other. Every hour I stay silent, I am a decoration— quiet, creased, collecting dust and daylight. By night I am a guard dog, brave in the blue hush of your room. I have swallowed your worries for years, stitched them into my seams. You hold me close, I hold your secrets closer. When the world feels wide and loud, I stay small and soft— a steady heartbeat made of cotton and courage.

Bruised mannerism expel from my mouth as I speak my mind to peers. Yet, a side the size of a nebulae peeks its head. A side smooth as lavender, a side as caring as purple yarn. Sides only those close to me see. Around the unknown I am a sea urchin, defensive and introverted. Resembling a neglected nightshade — no one dares to touch. Though, curious hands will lurk, fresh eyes observe me— watch me. These eyes will toss me away like beets in a meal. Make me feel unappreciated

I clamp down on your hair with a firm, unforgiving grip–the need to be perfect. As I go through each strand, you hear me singing in your ear, creating a smooth glossy masterpiece. As I move swiftly through, I burn the natural locks that God constructed. Day after day, night after night, I am constantly being used. You look in the mirror—hating what looks back at you. In the morning, you plug me back in,smelling the scorched follicles. Destroying who you were– producing

Between muted saltbush behind my grandma’s house, you spread, tendrils unfolding in thin, bare tangles under the pistachio shell ground. Above you add vibrant flavor to the plain salad of flora, plenty more appealing than the desert toned prickly pear. While the New Mexico cedar and dropseed grass thrive alone, you rely on the nurturing hands of those who crave your scorched leaves.

Peaking out, seeing your reflection every pass— the home of the delicate floating speculum. Sash— holding it so it does not move. The freeing feeling of looking out, I do not know what you will find, but you watch the world move silent or loud. I shield you from the outside guarding the coziness of your home like a protector. Reflecting the clouds as the sun bounces on the pier glass. Clearing the eyes of a fragile soul.

The fairies in the grass fly gently through my garden. Their brilliance seldomly gracing me. In times past, I’d beckon them close, whisper my wishes, fill my cheeks, and puff a billowing wind, sending them away. They carried my lead confessions upon lace wings. Watching them soar, I often wondered what fate they would bestow upon my leather skin. Those little fairies of red and black will one day become nothing more than pests to me. But for now, allow me to imagine some d