Calypso
2019-2020
by: Brianna Murphy
I hold the fragile brick, coral and holographic, with two fingers. Embossed hexagons line its length and flash a studio sheen when examined. I rub it on my skin, but it provides no SPF protection for my rosacea patches. I lift it to my nose and deeply inhale, but it doesn’t cleanse my rose quartz chakras. I hold the bar against both of my closed eyes, but it doesn’t align my lazy eye.
What is this even good for?
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I flick the tip of my tongue against the domes. It tastes of ingrown toenail tension. I bite down and it shatters like blown sugar balloons. The shards pierce my gums and ride down my throat like horsed bandits. I scream in rogue and bloat in weathered leather. The shards brush my villi like a cheap wig and remove my diverticulitis.
Finally! At least some progress.
