I worked in the attic

I worked in the attic
instead of the basement
Because I liked to see the early morning
Or the setting sun
Or the mid day ray
hit the unfinished pieces
Flicker in through an ashy curtain
And land on objects with anonymous determination
as though to give hope to parts
that may never become part
of the final draft

When the phone rang
I would have to come down
to the second level of the house
and I would sit on the edge of the bed
and talk about my struggles
with the work
Instead of recording it by hand
or audio

That was how I knew my piece
had purpose
I was making it for the same reason
I needed a voice on the other line
I needed to hear breath
While I released thoughts
I had already argued over with myself

I have to go back up,
I told my friend
I hear the current starting up.
Be safe, she told me

Upstairs
I ran my fingers
over his skin
Admiring his new shoulders
I had contemplated giving him
A fish tail
So he would always be in agony
Over not being able to make love to me

But you’re past all that?
I had heard my friend’s voice

So I thought what the hell
And gave him a long thick cock
and hoped it would make him
well adjusted

What about his childhood?
How can he be an adult without it?
Have you worked out his memories?
She was eyeing me hard as she said this;
interested though forever disapproving.

Long ago, I said.
I simply gave him ones like mine.

We all think we’re meant
to rule the world,
she laughed.

I have a feeling, I said,
Thinking of how he would always call me
to tell me he made it home,
This one’s gonna be perfect.

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