Natalie Nims
domestic hope
basement must, a couch no longer good enough for my living room, calendar with
Don’t forget!! scribbled on the twelfth of every month
unicorn patterned curtains now easily passed by daylight
I always hoped the moon
might be opposite the driveway, waiting to
give me another eclipse
I wish so often
my free trial has expired
the stars have sent rejection letters etched in skin
at the foot of my corneas
teddy bears dropped from a passing car’s open trunk
torn to motes of fluff by a lawnmower
the grass bore witness
testified for my remorse at kitchen court
a wrinkled shell once filled out by an avocado seed
ripped from it
to cosplay as a gavel
I think
I am a shell only peeking out
to plead
supermarket body
days unfolded within a store
that was like an open wound, trying to scab
a red crust broken every time I clocked in
detached arms restocking the shelves and returning
to their metal layers, all items gone
ghosts again
my breathing got sharper, quicker
mimicked by the blade at the back, the one
that shredded barrels of meat
ignored until every ham turned to
pink ribbons on a night where
everyone was at some party in the tourist heavy,
bulging downtown
succumbed to my auburn bed
a thin red sliver shining
imprinted by the meat slicer
the drop of blood that fell next
didn’t even stain my sheets
it blended right in
I woke up early to hand in my resignation
neurons synapse between two minds
one burning
one collecting cobwebs
Natalie Nims is a teen author from Ontario. Her work has been previously published in Sixpence Society Literary Journal, celestite poetry, and Livina Press, among others. In her free time, she enjoys crocheting, listening to music, and reading.
