Book Announcement!
Hey, friends! I am very excited to say, I have a chapbook coming out on March 30th! It is being published by Witches N Pink and will be available on Amazon. If you prefer ebooks, you can preorder now - https://www.amazon.com/Expulsion-Emily-Perkovich-ebook/dp/B085T94C9G/ref=sr_1_1?keywords=emily+perkovich+expulsion&qid=1584433586&sr=8-1
Eggs
Believing the last egg I cracked was cracked right up the middle is my prerogative, that is if there is a middle. If you ask me, the problem with eggs is their lack of structural perfection, so affixing blame to myself for my inability to predetermine the outcome of the break is no different than an eager beachcomber viewing a line in the sand as the tide ebbs and flows, expecting a straight edge.
Some will look at an egg and see the hand of God, a miraculous offering, the spherical elongation released from a chicken's vent; as food for the hungry. All I see is tangible irregularity. And I could eat a dozen. Two dozen. Waste not want not. Cracking them one at a time, releasing the yolk and the albumen flagrantly to sizzle unabridged upon the preheated griddle, as Jose Rameriz pitches a perfect game that I don't watch, and I want more, even after I vomit.
Tomorrow, when I wake up, the same exact time I woke up today, I will drive my clean car an equal distance between the double yellow line and the shoulder waiting three seconds before I proceed after the light turns green to buy more eggs. Two dozen. Maybe more if they are on sale, opening up the carton with anticipatory willingness only to be deceived. Eyeing every one of the twelve I rebuke the notion of God. There is no perfect egg.
When We Were
I will tell you I love you in all the ways that I can still say it without words. I will drape myself in pinks and reds and blues, in an attempt to be as bright as you. I will trace lines of words we used to sing together, tattooed on my body until the end of time. And sometimes I can still feel how small your hand was in mine, but we both know how much bigger your heart was. I can only say I love you in so many ways without words, but all the ways feel infinite. Like summertime and driving in the dark. Like roads that pulled us through them, hands clasped tightly to remind us that we had something to stay for and go home to. And I will miss you most in the summer, painstakingly and agonizingly so. But right now I miss you just the right amount, like a dull pain that never goes away. And I love you with words, but the ways seem bigger.
The static around those, that feel too much
___
My fingers land lightly on his skin, touching the part of the wrist where the pulse beats the hardest. Instantly electricity rages through my nerves, burning my fingertips, a faint smell of smoke irritating my nose as I inhale sharply.
What the hell was that?!
My intense charisma?
Jamie...
It’s a side effect of the lightning.
I gasp, ignoring how much my skin was stinging right now. His words covering everything else.
But you got tested after the accident, aunt Lucinda told me, she was there, with your grandma.
Kaly, come on, this isn’t a big deal. The doctor explained that there can be some side effects.
That it’s perfectly normal after what I have been through.
And that it’s a miracle that you even survived.
My voice feels hard when the words leave my mouth. We stare at each other in silence for a long moment, as his teeth clench tighter together, body tensing.
But I’m better now.
Are you sure?
I lift my hand and push it closer to his eyes, revealing that the red spots covering my fingers have turned almost black.
He ruffles his hair and takes a couple of deep breaths, frowning.
Kaly, I’m so sorry about that, I don’t control it yet.
Control what?
The static, the current... the electric volts moving in my blood. I’m sorry.
He seems to be apologizing for so many unsaid things. For who he was and who he has turned into. I stare shocked at him for what seems like forever, and then finally, see the fear behind his eyes. It dissolves the room around us, and all I can feel is his fear that overpowers, takes me completely under, turning into pain that is now my own, flooding me without any warning. Quickly, I take the last step forward without even considering the consequences of what had just happened, the smoke still lingering in my lungs. My arms tie themselves around his neck, as my whole body clings to him, in want of comfort, with the need to soothe his anguish.
I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere. I promise.
He returns the hug, his big hands wrapping around my back. And I feel it, the static. My hair lifts all around my face as if existing under the surface of the water. I shift back and stare at it in confusion, then gaze into his dark eyes and all that hurt; he’s scared that I won’t understand, that I’m going to leave, just like his parents in that accident all those years ago. I stretch out and brush my lips against his, then I deepen the kiss. If he’s surprised he doesn’t show it, returning everything that I offer to him with double force. My hair lifts even higher, the ones on the back of my neck sparkling like there’s power damage in my body. But there is nothing damaging about this. Reckless, overpowering, yes. Though also full of life. Healing.
You’re not leaving. You won’t run away.
He whispers into my ear. It doesn’t even sound like a question, it’s assurance and strength. I shiver from the charge his voice brings and what it does to me. I just want to sink into those vibrations, sink into it completely.
I don’t even know what that word means anymore.
My lips find his and I fall in deeper with each single breath, with every rush of electricity burning our bodies and finding the way to our hearts. No more running. Whatever the future holds for us, I’m here for him and I know that he feels it, as everything around us starts to lift, currents meeting and exploding. Light flashes outside the window, lightning disrupting the sky. I hardly notice it.
(Slow fade out.)
End scene.
___
Inspired when listening to a song from a playlist.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B4b4DqJPSZo
Jamie Scott - Unbreakable
Whir
I was born with buzzing in my head. At first I thought bees. I am good at building honeycomb-walls. Little, sticky bits of ache slip through. But most of the happy grows wings to flutter away. It’s easier to leave than stay. I am not honeycomb-shaped. I am no shape at all. It can’t be bees. My mouth has never dripped liquid-sugar. More like oil spills. Still underneath-tacky. Prism-meniscus, bouncing light across its own surface. Things that are pretty to look at, but toxic once swallowed. Spilt-oil. Now that’s a thought. Maybe I have a leak. Engine-ruptured. Hoses, tangled and bursting. Shadow-sludge, dripping off grey matter. Then again. Oil cleans. At some point I would have been grace-filled. Well-kept. And I’m all sacrilege. Polluted. That doesn’t work. Something else. Buzzing. Thrumming. Ceaseless. But also phantom. Could be a hologram. That could fit. Substance-lacking. An idea. Haunting. All electric-shock, humming across my cognitive-cage. High voltage. Explosion-poised. Ready. The only flaw there is the amount of power it would take to sustain that type of operation. I am energy-spent. More of a frayed extension cord than dynamic force. Strong enough to shock but not enough for a constant surge. Like the broken fan-blade throwing everything off kilter. Tick, tick, clank. A window-unit AC. Not a new model. But the ones from a few decades back. Constant-rattle of hot air pulsing against busted metal, cooling-coil. Antiquated, useless. I function at 1,000 BTU. Max capacity. It’s so fucking depressing. Can’t keep up. Never enough. And then I’m crying. So now there’s the possibility of low-power electricity jumping against the rapid current of tears making a quick trek from my eyes to my collar-bones. I’m getting off-track. Track. Trek. And then it hits me. The droning, purring, buzzing vibration that never leaves. My depression owns a treadmill.
Silly Little Rabbits
It was ridiculous really. The laughter is welling up in my stomach as I recall the memory. We were only ten years old. He was kind of chubby and I was definitely cute but awkward. Our dumb older cousins left us alone under the stairs after they peer pressured us to kiss each other. We were so grossed out by such an act. We squirmed and stared and stood forever trying to muster our little courage. We could have not done it and lied. We didn't owe those idiots anything. But they would round the corner soon and we had to make a decision. We were outside and any stranger could've seen us. So we counted...one, two, three. SMACK! EWWWWWWWWW! That was our response to one another as we tried to wipe the peck off our lips. Just like that the big dummies rounded the corner and we told them we kissed. Nothing but laughter. Moral of the story; your peers are stupid and immature.
Silver under the moon
“I forbid it! We don’t go with her KIND,” his mother spat
The kind who dared to be not white, so that was that
But James’s eyes were shiny saucers when he saw Isabel
He’d wave to her on the rooftop during the summer night swell
Each day on the bus he’d talk to her on the way to school
Finally one day he had to tell her, he’d lost his cool
Would she go to the dance with him, he’d really like that
She smiled and said yes and he grinned like a cool cat
Later one night they snuck up to the roof together and talked
Time stood still as they watched the stars and walked
Isabel was silver under the moon and gave an inviting glance
So he leaned over for a kiss while he had his chance
Her lips were silky and moist, so bewitching and sweet
With down soft skin and lilac scent that made his heart beat
They stayed out late that night, talking and kissed some more
James’s arms embraced her and they weren’t apart anymore
D&C
My mom used to work in hospitals and nursing homes. Long shifts. Heavy lifting. Clean-up in Room 3. Spilled-guts. Spilled-bowels. Spilled-bladder. Spilled-blood. Human-spill. Spill-spillage. She’d come home to house, nighttime-still. She’d come home to pass-out, lack of sleep. Stumble down stairs, wash away fluids. Wash away E. Coli. Wash away sweat. Wash away death-stench. Pass-out lack of sleep. Repeat, next day. Lift-up crying. Lift-up disease. Lift-up dying. Lift-up human-spillage. Repeat. Lift-up human-spillage. Repeat. The babies never had a chance. Twins. Fallopian-tube, burst. Platelet, internal-vein explosion. Ghost-bleeding. Phantom-bleeding. Insides-bleeding. Also known as hemorrhage. Also known as dying. Also known as 8 hours screaming/fainting/shaking pain. Also known as doctor-induced abort mission. Ride or die. Abort mission or sleep-eternal. No blood left. So I could hold two still-borns. One mass explosion. The other clump of tadpole-mess. Save the unborn. Send the living home. Follow the plan. Return home. Spare the rod, spoil the child. Kill the mother, spare the child. Or spoon-scrape cervix. Tissue-removal. Tissue-removal. And I wake every day thanking the doctor that left her blood-cup-half-full. Pray to false god of saving lives. Return me home. Return me home.