In Other Rooms
In the basement, one corner has no light bulb. It’s where Barbie goes when she’s mad; I give the corvette a push into the shadows. I drape my bruised body in mom’s shawls. Above, dad drinks to Deep Purple. I see the trees from where the wild things live loom over me in pencil scratches.
It came in the night. I woke to it lifting my sheets; it made my nightgown bleed. My doll saw it all so I ripped out her eyes before breakfast. It came in the sunlight and singed my lips so I gave it my voice. I choked out a doll that burned. I ran, hungry.