Jack Nasty

I like to play pretend. I lay in bed, and pretend i’m on the highest hill. I pretend the blood that i’ve sat in for hours, is soft green grasses, fuzzing on my skin. I pretend the ringing in my ears, as early bird blue jays. I pretend my brittle nails are tiny colony ants, looking for crumbs amongst the cool dirt. I pretend my dirty clothes are soft wool blankets, decorated with pretty patterns. I pretend my hunger is filled with peanut-butter sandwiches, and butter on bread. I pretend my bottle of spilled tequila is freshly squeezed lemonade, sour and sweet. I pretend my vase of wilted flowers are gardens of peonies, daisies, and roses. I pretend all the gunk on my floor, piling and piling, are rivers, flowing on the banks of rocks and pebbles. I pretend the sun, hiding behind my closed window, shines on my face, never leaving the sky. I pretends the heavy winds coming from my fan are sweet lullaby hums, soothing my cries, my cries that I pretend are silent giggles. I pretend my pain is thumping heartbeats, echoing all over my body, like a little girl after her first kiss.

Playing pretend makes me happy, makes me forget.