Status: something short to keep creative

Poison Oak


"The worlds got me dizzy again," she says, exhaling thin strands of smoke into crisp, dry night air. She works two jobs just to pay her rent, she feeds me peanut butter and expired jelly sandwiches for dinner, and she doesn't seem to mind when I leave toothpaste on her sparse bathroom counter. We sit and watch the static on the weathered television set, taking turns imagining far off worlds within the dancing black and grey designs. She tells me that she used to fall down a lot, that most people never even bother to ask her name, but somehow she thinks I'll never do that to her, that she keeps her balance when I'm around. I swallow hard and blink really fast, hoping to God that she's right.