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the dead birds in the trees all stared from the surface of their rain-glistening glass eyeballs while i huddled near my window singing to console my shivering heart. thoughts: i could go over to reed's house. i could just walk over there and knock on the door. it wouldn't be that hard. but i might slip in the middle of the street and his stupid camaro would run over me. it would push my head into the gravel really hard and hurt my cheek bones and my ears would make everything silent. then it would move down my back and my ribs would make a horrible xylaphone sound and run over my kneecaps and bend my feet in opposite directions and i would be stuck like fish fillet on the toaster-oven tray until 6 o clock when everyone is ready for the birthday party and then mike phipps would say "okay josephine bite on this damp rag when i say to" and then steve miller would pull on my leg and it would come off so they'd have to toss it aside and try another limb until they've all come off and they send rachel in to get a spatula from the kitchen cannisters while behind everyone the dog carries my left arm off and gnaws on the fingers and then andy would come out eating his cake kind of casually walking like he does in his indian moccasins and say "hey guys what's up?" and mom would say "your sister's just been RUN OVER" and he'd bend down and chew his cake close to my face making those chewing noises and sort of nonchalantly say "nah, she's fakin'" and everyone would go back inside and i would see andy from the window sit in his birthday boy throne shaking his hands in a fist above his head triumphantly while everyone sings around him. but now here dry warm and my brain whirs pleasantly away within novels and white sheets. presently i feel okay about the broken ideals but i'm not sure why.
by The JavaScript Source
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